


All I Ever Wanted

by 48eyesand32teeth1sharptongue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 6 chapters done, AU where the Long Night happens post Dany getting to King's Landing, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Arya centric, Bi Brienne of Tarth, Bi Jon Snow, Body Horror, Brienne Centric, Butterfly Sickness, Canon Divergent, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't copy to another site, F/F, F/M, Fire Magic and Ice Magic, Happy Ending, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, I Have Not Forgotten The North Remembers, I'm writing things in segments, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jon centric, Lesbian Sansa Stark, M/M, Mild Spoilers for S8, Missandei Centric, Night King Centric, Political backstabbing, Prophecies are subverted but still significant, Sansa Centric, Sith Lord Daenarys even though she still deserved better, So many zombies, Squick, Still A Major WIP so expect a lot of disconnected sentences, The Game of Thrones doesn't end even when you die, The Night King actually gets an arc, The Weirwood Trees actually matter, They all deserved better, Trans Jon Snow, Valyria, WIP, Warging, Whump, Zombie Wars, but ideally this will be worked on a little more often, dany centric, even if I'm still on a batman kick, greyscale, ignore the chapter count of the fic, mostly Jon Centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-03-09 01:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 39,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/48eyesand32teeth1sharptongue/pseuds/48eyesand32teeth1sharptongue
Summary: Winter is coming, and with it, the fires of the old world are stirring. But after so long, and with so many invasions, the North has almost forgotten the true enemy. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. The North must remember. Otherwise, all shall be lost, and they risk forging the wheel anew.(AU where the Night King has different tactics and actually draws the war out and Daenerys makes a play for the throne to leverage newfound firepower against the dead which precipitates her moral event horizon.)NOTE: Only 6 chapters are complete, the rest are just key scenes or ideas while I plan my timeline and write my plot, it's easier for me to write in small sections with the important stuff first.





	1. In Snow and Ashes Do Our Footprints Wait... (Done)

**Author's Note:**

> The cast and crew worked really hard on GOT and I respect all their hard work. But on a script level, the last few eps had too many character assassinations, dropped plot threads, and rushed ideas. The Night King deserved a better arc. I don't mind how he died, but I wanted more Jon and Night King interactions and then have Arya save Jon's life... Also I want to know why the heck the Night King is making art projects out of bodies. I want an explanation, and I'm never gonna get it, and I'm gonna fix it. Also, Missandei's death was the most insensitive and pathetic way to kill off a character ever and the lack of tact was off the wall, and I'm FIXING IT because she's the one person I wanted to thrive along with the Starks and Brienne! Also, Jon is my favorite character along with the Starks, and I want their family to be reunited and stick together.
> 
> As a Jon stan, Sansa stan, Arya stan, Missandei stan, Brienne stan, and NK stan... I cannot let these wrongs go unchallenged. And as much as I love a story where Dany gets to heal and be her best self (and her villainous decay was the most shoehorned in plot-wavy stuff ever where all the men have the exact same issues she did but only she gets punished narratively despite the fact everyone shouldn't get off scott free in the darkfic environment of morally screwed GOT land, even if I can appreciate what symbolism Martin was probably going with that), but more importantly, everyone knows I have a weakness for love gone horribly wrong and narcissism creeping in along with power hungry control issues (and I have a weakness for ladies who are allowed to be bloodthirsty and intense and unapologetic). So I'm gonna write some shameless Missandei and Dany fluff so they get a happier arc in something else, but in this story, Dany is understandable but not sympathetic at all (gimme the Dany and Jon angst of a romance gone Anakin Skywalker and Padme, although Jon isn't down with incest). Also, Missandei and Brienne get their own damn arcs because the show wouldn't know a decent way to honor their characters without making them props for others and it's the worst thing ever. Also, Jon gets to be happy eventually after suffering because Jon is mistreated by the plot so much.
> 
> Also my priorities are Jon, Missandei, Brienne, Sansa, Arya, Meera, Dany, The Night King, Sam, Gilly, Sandor, Grey Worm, Bran, Lady Stoneheart, Rickon, Yara, and Jaime, in that order. Also expect a large focus of cracky semi-onesided NK/Jon to be treated 100% seriously, that's the weirdest stuff in here.
> 
> But yeah, TLDR: GOT needed 110% more zombies and fiery death and actual character arcs and resolutions and not to drop the ball on all the amazing characters D&D wouldn't know how to honor because their idea of subversive is boring vanilla cookie cutter nonsense where people die for shock value and not emotional arcs due to character flaws, women are sidelined even when they're the only people actually invested in power struggles after so many political assassinations, abuse victims can't escape their circumstances and are doomed to turn into the people who hurt them or to crawl back to them, people who fight injustice and go too power hungry don't get a chance to see the damage they've wrought and deal with the consequences, slaves who are free and reclaiming their life die in chains to justify shitty dumbass writing for another character who wasn't allowed to be nuanced despite stellar acting, and on top of it all, Jon Snow doesn't get a proper character arc. The only people who get a less raw deal were Arya and Tormund, but at least Jon and Brienne lived and Sansa got the North. I can't believe they gave me that and it still felt hollow because the story was just flat and dead and boring.
> 
> Also I'm not posting trigger warnings for this, everyone's already seen some fucked up shit in GOT, and I'm worried I'll forget.
> 
> Otherwise, the finale with Dany and Jon felt like the beginning of a different story and not the ending of the Dany arc or Jon's arc, ya feel me?
> 
> (Oh, and the main endgame ships:  
> Meera/Sansa  
> Jon/Tormund  
> Arya/Gendry  
> Brienne/Yara (aka Asha)  
> Missandei/Grey Worm  
> Gilly/Sam  
> Jaime will end up single but he'll at least be better off, same with Sandor  
> Dany is up in the air, but my main focus is her platonic bond with Missandei and how her actions impact that
> 
> All the other ships will be... less happy or at least really complicated. Also, I am of the opinion you can build every character up without tearing them down, but I also like powerful women battling out politics so expect that, but without favoritism. I love Sansa and Dany for different reasons and I hate that people pit them against each other despite their varying priorities and opposition to each other's goals.)
> 
> Also this is a 90% Jon, Brienne, and Missandei centric fic. I haven't written their main stuff yet but they are the main POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title a song from Prince of Egypt.
> 
> PLEASE READ: I am writing this out of order and in partial incomplete segments as I go, so please ignore the chapter count and tread carefully if you like linear stories that make sense.
> 
> When stuff is done I'll mark it in the summary, tags, and chapter headers and/or summaries.
> 
> So, with that disclaimer: Chapter one is done and safe to read. Flesh and Bone is also done and safe to read. Same with Monster Mash. Dance of the Decorous is also done but way later in the story. Kingdom's edge is also done, but I'm still not sure where I want to put that chronologically since I'm probably adding 3 Winterfell chapters where Arya talks to Jon before Jon leaves to find Dany before going North and to KL. Bad Romance is done but also spoilery.

In Old Valyria, slaves worked for masters of fire, kept in mines and made to toil, ceaseless until you dropped dead. And death was only half freedom, only the shadow of a release from imprisonment of a wheel made by those in power.

The Lord of Light, God of the Sun, was a cruel master, and if those who ruled spoke the words and willed it, they could bring you back through the flames.

If they wanted you to dance, you rose, bloody and alive. You kept your will, forgetting a little of who you were, but you danced, a puppet on their string, until they grew bored, until they punished you for dying, until they put you back to work again.

You could keep your mind, but it didn't change there was nowhere to run. That the only option was service, if you wanted any release at all.

\--

Some fled. Some found a way. They were few and far between, but it was enough. The ones who remained spoke in whispers of the few who made it out of Valyria and made their way North, hoping the ice would keep Valyria's flames from licking at their heels and their chains from dragging them back.

\--

If you go too far North, you disappear. Those who live up there, those who never saw the shadow of Valyria but lived in the fear of an endless winter and creatures that passed over your door if you hand over your firstborn...

They speak tales to those who ran up from the south, tales of what hides in the dark. Tales of what they want to keep out of the forests and caves and houses they have made, on the coasts and through the mainland.

They do not fight the cold, though.

For all their fear, the Cold Ones are familiar, and something tells them the cold keeps Valyria's greedy, snatching fingers and armies full of fire and screams and blood from trying to push closer.

They have tried before.

But no matter who goes too far north, into the snow and mist and quiet...

It is known you don't come back again, if you tread too close.

\--

Those who ran and got caught before the borders of Valyria were in sight, those who fell injured, speared by guards in the labyrinths of mines and tunnels and palaces of Valyria's sprawling cities, those who would rather try for freedom but know it is out of reach, those who would hope death would bring some possible release even if they know it will not stick: they prayed to a God of Many Faces, a God to challenge all other Gods, and hoped their fellows who slit their throats, the God of every person who was only a faceless cog in a machine they could not escape, hoped their shared need to bring the empire down by ending the ones who kept it running, however unwilling, hoped that their promises to each other and the power of the night beyond would stop the Light from taking them back and breathing ashes back into their lungs as they choked their way back to the land of the living.

\--

Some people come back wrong after a while. They cannot speak. They cannot dream. All they do is scream and rip people apart, their stone skin like the ashes and stone of the very mines they called their tomb.

\--

In the far, far North, beyond Valyria's grasp and across the sea where the continents began to shift away, the children of the forest feared the spread of man to their homes. Feared those who fled and hid and conquered in places beyond the reach of flames and empires. And there were others they feared more, Others who were older and crueler than them, just as ruthless as those who ruled the flames in the South but who burned cold instead.

These Others, they had their own ways. Their own rules. Their own motives.

And they made a deal with the men, the men who fled, men who looked death in the eye and decided it could wait.

All men must die. 

But revenge is patient.

Revenge is cold.

And in the snow, it festers. It waits.

The ice of northern waters serves as a buffer. It beats back the fires and the flames of Gods and Kings that were not their own, that dared challenge those who ruled beyond the snow and eternal quiet.

What is Dead May Never Die.

And those who are neither dead nor living can afford to let time pass them by.

\--

Once upon a time, Valyria rose. Then, like all empires, Valyria fell, too blind and too bold to think itself anything other than immortal.

In the South, it is quiet, the same quiet found in the North after their last gasp once the black smoke and fire reigned down, melting Valyria with it.

The empire is a tomb, full of fire and blood, smoke and ashes that smothers all it touches.

Few people survive. They rebuild. They remain.

\--

Up North, men and women and free folk of all those who lived and loved and remembered fought to seal the Others beyond the Wall so they could not spread once the fires below went out. Bran the Builder is lauded in songs and stories, passed down from generation.

But men are mortal. Men are young.

All men must die.

And while humanity forgot, plagued by their own brief memory, those left in the ashes of their fallen empires, and those in the frozen wastes that were only tombs of where footprints faded and memory was lost...

The Other remained.

And they keep waiting, pretending at slumber, and let their memory and the fear of all they were fade. One day, they take back what should have been theirs. There is no rush.

\--

Hundreds of thousands of years later, slaughter after slaughter, after whispers and skirmishes with the Dead beyond the wall has started, Winterfell has finally been reclaimed. Arya Stark wakes up in a bed that was now hers, not the one she grew up in, but the one that is home, the one that she made. Despite that, there is little comfort, and she jolts from sleep with shallow breaths, not able to get enough air.

She bites down, tastes blood, and feels echo of words that she knows on her tongue, but despite the fact she knows them, knows them well, they do not feel like hers. They feel like an icy whisper on the back of her neck.

  _Valar Morghulis._

Something cold reaches deep inside her, down her throat and farther and deeper, until it hollows her out and makes her feel empty, and her face itches like it is not her own.

It's not unlike when she was struck blind in Braavos- she knows she is being watched- but something primal inside her tells her it is not a man watching her.

Arya thinks of icy fingers grasping her arm, of a scar like Bran's, of blue eyes staring at her from Nymeria's gaze.

Then she takes a shuddering breath, stops clenching the knife under her pillow so tight, then uncurls from underneath Gendry's encircling arms ( _he's still out like a light, breathing heavily, looks peaceful and at ease in a way he doesn't always while awake because the war stole that from the both of them. His calm slumber still comforting, though, and warms Arya up even while she can't shake the feeling of never being warm again, a corpse-cold itch right there below the skin_ )- and Arya slips away to go to find Jon.

Jon always knew what to say when things didn't make sense, and that, if nothing else, makes Arya feel like she's home, and even if it's silly, the fact that some things are the same somehow means everything might not be ripped away once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry I haven't forgotten about my SPN stuff, ALPAS is my baby and I will finish it, but I've just needed a change of pace and to change it up sometimes since I've been stressed a ton. So expect this to update whenever without much consistency.
> 
> Oh, and expect bi Brienne, lesbian Sansa, bi Jon, bi Dany, Grey Worm and Missandei to go to fucking Naath and be happy and to also realize they love each other but then realizing their differing political end goals mean for their friendship and romance, Jaime actually having some character reflection, Dany seeing the worst of herself and having to grapple with her moral hypocrisies while still having a power-hungry breakdown in the name of saving everyone, and in the midst of her savior complex, Missandei having to deal with someone she loves turning into a tyrant and having her own priorities and dreams coming into conflict with the goals of Dany despite their closeness, Jon having to realize some people he loves aren't kind and trying to keep everything from falling apart from the goodness and kindness inside himself, Jon having to assert himself and his boundaries while having them disrespected, Jon getting to be happy with Tormund in the end, and some Arya, Brienne, Missandei, Sansa, Bran, Tyrion and Sandor and Jaime going on life quests and bantering because we all could use that in our lives.
> 
> But yeah, Dany having a savior complex and using blanket annihilation without regret and going bad is way more compelling when it comes from a humanitarian standpoint and when you've got zombies trying to take over as a crux for the plot and a way to rally the masses for survival reasons. That's more interesting and if she's gonna have a villainous breakdown, it's gonna be done right. But I also feel like as much as I get what the whole metaphor of the savior complex and someone having absolute power and surety in destiny and willingness to ignore compassion and the views of others around you while also preserving Dany's maternal slant with her subjects and not ignoring her trigger-happiness with fire, it also just doesn't jive well with how Dany has been treated. I get the whole "we cheered when she destroyed because she was killing genuinely bad people" and didn't realize when it stopped seeming like it was protecting people until it turned into blanket power consolidation for cult worship, but the fact Dany's arc was this just seems diametrically opposed to how much she was trying to not be that person. It feels like she was pulled in two directions and no one knew how to commit to one or the other. Or maybe people escaping abuse and realizing they could heal and be peaceful and make things grow and be kind and a community isn't interesting enough to people, and I think that's the real shame of a dark gritty series deciding gentleness and kindness and empathy and family and rebuilding is less important after all the destruction and pain and brutality and evil we see in GOT. Destruction for a grim, gritty take on human nature and the way power works seems hollow and thin as a story (and in real life, when people act like kindness isn't a choice or something to work towards and what binds us all together despite all the horrors of the world) when there's nothing to prop up in contrast to it, to work towards, to build (which having a zombie army and the existential teamwork of the series against the Night King balanced well until they dropped the ball), and the fact that stories where kindness doesn't win in the end because those are the people rebuilding in the ashes just seems dumb to me.
> 
> Part of the reason late season GOT was interesting is because there were all these players who were left after people murdered each other. People who survived. People were reborn. People changed and adapted. And dropping that, when those were the ones who outlasted everyone else... It's a fucking stupid story, imo. It doesn't have anything new or interesting or rebellious or subversive or even honest to say. Not everything has to be happy, and bittersweet is one thing, but stagnant... Nothing changed much, and that makes for a story with little payoff.
> 
> Also I haven't read GOT in three years so any mistakes... TBH I don't care. I have an agenda and this is my sandbox now. I take creative license with IP that isn't mine.


	2. Kingdom's Edge (done unless I add flashbacks in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs chronologically before everyone is at KL while Jon is still at Winterfell.
> 
> Brienne and Tormund chat.
> 
> Chapter title once again from Hollow Knight the ambiance is great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna sound out of character because Brienne and Tormund's speech patterns are eluding me at the moment b/c all writing is kicking my teeth in. but I will fix it later
> 
> but yeah Tormund is way more casual/less whatever the heck this is, I'm just sick of writer's block
> 
> it's like badly written renaissance fair slang up in this bitch
> 
> anyway Tormund is bi in this, or pan, not too sure which, and i can write this as badly as I want because I'm not being paid millions to make this perfect, I am just a stressed out tiny gremlin doing this for stress relief, and while my writing ability might not be where I want it to be, at least my heart's in the right place

 

Brienne doesn't get a lot of chances to confront nuisances with all the war preparations going on. But when Tormund shows up in the hallway opposite her, no witnesses, and Brienne having had enough, she levels her sword at his throat.

"You. Why do you keep singling me out when I have made it clear I am not impressed?" Brienne snarls, lip curling a little. "Speak."

Tormund holds his hands up, placating, eyebrows raised, because he knows she's not going to actually run him through, but he also knows his comments weren't exactly well-received. He can read a damn room- anyone who thinks otherwise only falls for the facade. It's served him well, tricking enemies of Mance and other wildlings and crows who thought he was too dull too make sufficient plans.

But he supposes the ruse is up, and he'd best diffuse the situation before this force of nature decides he has overstepped one time too many. He'd hoped she'd catch on that it wasn't personal- by the old Gods, he'd never paid anyone much reverence, just look at how he'd flirted and jested with the Hound, although with Brienne he'd tried to tone it down and be good-natured when it came to appreciating someone he did respect, and who clearly hadn't been by enough men or women, even if it's clear she certainly did not understand it as such. That itself was a miscalculation, but he hadn't realized the ingrained memory of any Southern's socialized derision had clouded what had all been taken in stride back north.

"Easy. If have offended a woman as impressive as you, I only have myself to blame. I may jest, but I do not mean to make a mockery of someone as illustrious as yourself."

"Your jests are unappreciated and crude."

"You speak fair." Tormund shrugs. "Our little crow has always said I take things too far."

"He's not wrong." Brienne admits with a bit of bite, but lowers her blade in the name of honor now that she knows this man won't continue to harass.

"Can you blame me? I am not a man of half-measures, and I do not censor myself to please the ears of craven kneelers who wouldn't know freedom if it bit them in the ass- present company excluded." But Tormund, instead of ribbing her further or winking, instead bows his head. "Besides, among friends, I rarely consider that my jests may be less than well-received, when honesty and brotherhood has always bound us together. When the winter comes, our people cling to uproarious laughter and taking the piss out of each other, yet it is always seen as a gesture of respect, treating each other as equals when we always know we protect our own."

"Then I will relent, Giantbane. Although I hardly consider us familiar enough to be friends."

"Damn shame, that. But if I have made a mistake, Lady Brienne, I hope will not blemish what still could be. I was not joking when I said you were more of a woman than any other southern bird I've yet to lay eyes on, and I thought my true motives would at least be known to you, when I know I am not one who keeps your interest. But I know you are concerned with honor, and while we have our own codes up north, Snow has said enough about how important it is to you that I will try my best not to besmirch what is valued by someone as skilled and honest as yourself. As a wildling with no ill will, it remains true that you deserve a friend who would brawl for you without reserve and spit in your enemies' faces, even if my other comments were still unwelcome. In all honesty, I thought my meaning plain to yourself while still opaque to others- it seemed an appropriate way to deflect scrutiny for either of us, when others in the south would look askance at who we truly would profess to love, and while their high and mighty opinions matters naught to me, I thought if we bounced the joke off each other it would make things easier for you as well, particularly when you are more reserved about such personal matters."

Brienne stares at Tormund for a second, blinking. It appears the man was better as evaluating those around him, enough to pierce smokescreens serving as her armor. She'd thought her attraction to other women and Jaime had gone unnoticed, but perhaps she had not been as subdued about it as she'd hoped.

"I accept your apology." Brienne finally sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But with that nonsense out of the way, I have to ask- why pretend to be smitten? I've dealt with many a man who feigns interest, and while it matters little, especially now that I know your words were not meant to mock, but it's a little... excessive, particularly when we all can see how you look at Jon Snow." Brienne decides on each word carefully, regarding Tormund with raised eyebrows.

Tormund looks devastated, and then down at his fingers, fiddling with a patch of fur on his cloak, and says nothing until he whispers, "He can't know."

The subdued look on Tormund's face makes Brienne's own go slack in sympathetic camaraderie. She has her own suspicions, and knows what is it like to love but not to have the words to say and make it known. It surprises her, however, that someone as bold and ribald as Tormund would share that same shyness, particularly when his people have little stigma about such romantic feelings or shame towards who loves whom, but there is still a chance of some unspoken threat of reprisal she knew not of, when she herself knows what it is like to love in a way that is forbidden or someone higher than her station without being able to speak the words.  That, more than anything else, makes her want to reach out.

"Pardon my presumptions, but why the charade, particularly when you are an honest man, and far more open and unrestrained than most? You've certainly flirted with the Hound and other warriors often enough, and I hardly see how matters of the heart would make you pause. If the wildlings keep no kingship, no title would make the match unsuitable; or are you afraid that, for all the ways your people have accepted him as their own, Jon would not consider himself one of you or be able to reciprocate?"

Tormund actually shuffles his feet, then looks level with Brienne's probing gaze.

"It's nothing like that- Jon's a good man, he wouldn't take it badly. But he has enough to worry about. He has died and come back, been betrayed too often or leveraged by those who would use him, and he's seen things no man should see. If I can fight by his side and keep him safe, then that is all I can ask for. I do not need him to love me back- I will follow him to the ends of the earth either way. But I cannot jeopardize what we have already, or chance his attentions being split so that he will be distracted with so many enemies at his doorstep. I cannot risk him with these small matters, no matter how much the heart wishes to be known, or how important the little things are in times such as these. There's too much that could go wrong."

Brienne nods.

"Whatever my opinion is worth, I think he would understand, Tormund. And I think you would be surprised- Jon seems very fond of you. I think he'd see this as a light in the darkness, with all the enemies on our doorstep."

Tormund looks away, out past the window at the howling snow.

"This isn't about what I want. I cannot take that chance, whether he would have me or no."

Brienne bows her head.

Then Tormund brightens, straightening his posture with the same finesse and open confidence that would hide any and all torment from his face. A mask that served as well as any other.

"Now that we have reached an understanding- do you mind if I continue to tease you, as crass as I may be? I think it still a sporting strategy, if you know now where my words come from and the true reason I speak. And it may help that damn golden-haired idiot to realize he has competition, imagined or otherwise, if that would please you."

Brienne bites her lip, expression inscrutable, then crosses her arms, sniffing in clear, practiced disdain, entire demeanor as severe as it is whenever she'd otherwise been accosted.

"As loathe as I am to grant your request, I suppose I can allow it. Don't expect me to be kind when I respond. My jibes are hardly gentle, and nor am I."

Tormund's expression breaks into a wide grin, and he holds out a hand to shake, knowing Brienne would not appreciate the full body hugs he grants his friends due to her need for personal space.

"I wouldn't ask anyone to hold back with me, nor for you to ever change, you giant, fantastic woman." Then he says, serious and quiet, "You are a marvel, Brienne of Tarth. And one day all the south will know it as the Starks and I do. And far as that knight you have eyes for- he'll see it, one day, when you are ready to let him know, and he'd be a fool if he didn't take the chance to spend the rest of his days with you."

Brienne rolls her eyes, but she smiles back, too.

Then Tormund adds, "Though you could do better."

Brienne smacks his shoulder. "The heart chooses whom it will."

"Aye, that it does." Tormund says quietly, and then he looks out the window as Brienne leaves the room. "That it does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka Brienne is like: dude why the sexual harassment u know I'm not into you and everyone can see you've got eyes for Jon Snow
> 
> Tormund: yeah uh about that can you be my beard and keep this under wraps
> 
> Brienne: ...Just tell him you like him
> 
> Tormund: but what if he doesn't like me? What if my love for him causes some kind of untold ruin that destroys him through distraction? WHAT DO I DO THEN? 
> 
> Brienne: omg you'll deal anyway I'm leaving bro *slides away*
> 
> Tormund: oh ho ho no you don't Miss I'm Totally Not Into Jaime Lannister
> 
> Brienne: bitch take that back!
> 
> Tormund: why because he might hear you?
> 
> Brienne: SHHHH
> 
> Tormund: look, if you're my beard it might make him jealous
> 
> Brienne: ...I am above such things
> 
> Tormund: are you Really???
> 
> Brienne: Seven Hells fine, you can keep being annoying but don't expect me to play along
> 
> Tormund: alright
> 
> Later: Brienne totally plays along, it's like an inside joke, it fills her with vindictive pleasure knowing they are the only 2 in on it  
> \--
> 
> anyway I love Tormund but sometimes his canon characterization annoys me b/c you can tell he's written to be tone deaf when it is beyond obvious Brienne is not interested, and despite his sense of humor Tormund is generally pretty chill with people he respects and actually pretty insightful, so I figure let's tone down the misogyny
> 
> but also, he really likes taking the mickey out of people and constantly joking so this is more about making everyone else in the room uncomfortable by proxy (and hiding his crush), let's be honest. plus he does flirt with anyone he finds interesting...
> 
> but for real, look at any scene he looks at Jon Snow and tell me that's not pure cinnamon roll love right there


	3. For Whom the Knell Tolls (segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing and bells.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Crypt of the Necrodancer, because it has ready made puns and kickass music.
> 
> Also, the stuff that happens with Missandei happens after King's Landing gets sacked and burned and Jon confronts Dany, which will be explained but not right now, particularly because I'm still writing chapter two and every incomplete segment is me taking a break.
> 
> This is around chapter 3 or 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's always confused me about GOT?
> 
> People are like "wow realism" (which makes sense for the characters and their intensity) but then there are plot points with dragons and prophecies and zombies... like... if there's a magical thing you can use... why not use it and then still have consequences and prices for the magic allowing for new plots?
> 
> it's cooler to write a story where a magic thing is a solution to a problem but causes a worse problem as a result

Cersei doesn't surrender.

\--

Missandei drags Cersei to the edge of the wall, chains around her neck, and falls, pulling the Lannister queen down with her.

\--

Drogon flies up to the wall, unafraid, and catches Missandei before she reaches the ground.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's cooler than having an ex-slave drag down their captor while in chains, stealing their freedom back?
> 
> Not dying from the attempt.


	4. Monster Mash (Done)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Winterfell a few weeks ago, before KL's whole deal in chapter three-five. This occurs a little before "peace" talks with Cersei but after Jon and Dany and the others recover from the trip North.
> 
> Chapter title a song of the same name, also because bizarrely the lyrics kinda almost fit with wolfmen and crypts and zombies stuck doing a dance once they die and I'm honestly surprised it worked so well

 

Bran's eyes are white, staring at something far beyond her, scanning a horizon that was getting steadily darker.

Sansa can't help but be on edge. She does not sleep.

And like her younger sister, she too hears the thunder rumbling, sees the snow begin to fall, harder and faster until you could barely see the lands past Winterfell.

The gates are locked. The fires are lit.

Everyone in Winterfell is armed and ready for the dead to come knocking, come to break down their door.

Sansa readies the guards and every abled bodied person she can muster to keep watch, to prepare for a siege they could only hope to outlast temporarily.

All they know is Winter is coming, almost on top of them, and even with Bran's foresight, there's no telling when the hammer will fall.

\--

It starts with the tiniest of skittering knocks in the dark.

They scratching gives way to a frantic, more violent noise.

The quiet soon gives way to panicked shouts and shrill screams, as everyone posted on the edges of the walls and in the center of the city sees skulls and skinless faces crawling with their crackling limbs out from the crypts, mummified and preserved and those too old to be anything other than rotting with decay.

The people of Winterfell attack who they can. Prepare for the worst.

But the wights rising from the crypts and from under the hard earth do not attack.

No.

They run as far and fast as they can in the other direction, away from the city, scrambling past and through and over the walls and gates as fast as their shambling legs can carry them, without even a shriek to mark their passing.

\--

The ravens crowing outside fall silent. And when Bran resurfaces, there is no certainty in his face, no calm, only something closed to dazed.

"I couldn't see them." He whispers, looking at her, looking broken. "They were supposed to be here, but not yet, not now. They were supposed to be after something else, I thought-"

But he doesn't get to finish his sentence.

Outside, the roiling clouds and constant, screaming wind and choking darkness persists, stronger now, pressing down upon Winterfell like a physical weight.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the people of Winterfell hear the marching of feet.

A small procession of wights with blue eyes circle the edges of Winterfell, just beyond the limits of where their long-distance weapons reach, and box every unfortunate soul inside.

But they do not move. They stand there, motionless, in jagged rows, while the rest of the dead keep marching and make their way around, intent on some other prize.

It is too quiet, despite the buzzing, rising panic of the city.

\--

Sansa tries to keep count of the dead legions trudging slowly past, some running faster, and the older, decaying ones dragging themselves slowly along, tripping on any obstacle in the way.

But even those foes are too far away, and all blur together into one writhing mass of grey with gleaming blue eyes.

There are so many of them, though.

More people than Sansa has ever seen in her life, triple that and more.

\--

When she tries to send another raven to King's Landing, to Jon, they watch it fly into the oncoming storm, flapping unevenly, before an arrow strikes it to the ground.

The wight that shot it doesn't even move anything other than it's arms, and then those, too, fall to the side, like cut puppet strings when it's blue-eyed host has decided it needs it's sight no longer.

None of Bran's ravens make it, Bran flinching in pain every time they get hewn apart by whatever winter magic freezes them to fall to the earth.

\--

Arya, however, has one trick up her sleeve, and hopes that this last ditch effort to warn those south (or Jon, at least give him warning, something to maybe stem the tide) works, and that her uncertain, untested failsafe is not attempted in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the NK and the others can afford to go around Winterfell, not just because they can but because they have a vested interest in doing so
> 
> also I'm still figuring out where I want reanimated Viserion and the NK to be at a given time, hence why he hasn't shown up directly yet, I'm figuring out his priorities on where his best advantage is.
> 
> But he flew past Winterfell already, and I gotta add that in somehow maybe because his undead dragon has way more speed than the rest of the dead army considering they got a fair way's to walk to get to KL, but I also have another explanation for how they get to KL so fast that's gonna be explained in the Jon & Dany upcoming chapter
> 
> But he also deliberately made Winterfell's inhabitants know that they are being surrounded to prove a point because Bran keeps trying to spy and because he's a sassy overconfident magical king so there's that, too
> 
> otherwise, if ppl are wondering where Brienne and Missandei are at and why they haven't gotten more focus yet, it's because I'm figuring out where people are for the zombie fights, and because I have non-zombie buildup chapters with their POV that occur a little after chapter one, because there's some down time where Jon is in Winterfell with Arya and Tormund and they all get non-intense moments to set up where they are in chapters I haven't written yet
> 
> also eventually this chapter will be better but I mostly just wanted to get certain things established so I can make it less exposition-y later


	5. Flesh and Bone (Done 5-26-19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter S8E6 but with a twist as my setup. It is not the end, but a beginning. Also, it is basically really similar because this was my impetus to write this, so the real buildup will be the changes on how we get Dany here and where she goes from here. I'm also having part of the King's Landing fight happen before this differently, and Cersei is still alive, so part of the carnage is due to actions Cersei took, which is partially why Dany is rationalizing the way she is because she doesn't see all of it as her responsibility, more a response.
> 
> Chapter title a song by Black Math.
> 
> Also, I accidentally posted this early with stuff I was gonna put in part two so I just gave up. The part that's gonna be fleshed out more is the actual canon dialogue we got in the scene with some more body language and internal thoughts, but aside from that the beginning and end are done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and important thing: the reason they are at KL is once the zombie powerpoint happened, Cersei didn't believe them/hubris got in the way, and instead of heading North, Dany wanted to deal with Cersei then and there and didn't trust she was being honest, so then it turned into infighting and KL vs Dany's ppl.
> 
> also I just want to say despite the fact they did not sell me on the characters getting here from where they were, this scene was solid and the acting was phenomenal.
> 
> Jon's whole thing about mercy and Dany's insistence that she's doing the right thing and that flicker of cruelty caused by her choosing power...
> 
> The actors did so good, even if the writing was shaky and the narrative payoff didn't land. 
> 
> And then the ending of the scene just... It didn't fulfill the obligations of wrapping up the story in a way that felt complete. This was more like a start to seeing some horrible dystopia and having to deal with that, and dealing with a world of fire instead of ice.
> 
> That being said, I'm still not sure I want to keep this as my jumping off point once I complete this fic and go over it again, because there is just so much buildup to make this work and it might fit better somewhere else after I alter it further. But I might just throw more chapters to set up Dany's descent before this, and there is gonna be at least one chapter where the KL battle is different but just as brutal.
> 
> also, for the cool people who are reading this out of order and already invested, I have finished Dance of the Decorous so if you aren't waiting for me to get my act together, that's there so you can get an idea of how I write actual proper chapters that aren't a mess.

Dany's footprints trail across the floor, left in the ashes as she climbs the stairs.

She pays the fumes in the air no mind, because the throne is right there, and the burning ashes of her new world were the cruel, cruel price to pay for fixing all that has broken this land.

She'd been waiting so long, and now, her destiny is rising to meet her.

When she looks at all the iron swords, she pictures all her ancestors who might have sat in it long before she arrived. Not her father, his legacy was one she has no wish to emulate, but all the others who had paved the way for her to reclaim what truly belonged to her.

And while part of her mourns, part of her misses her husband and the child she had seen, had loved and lost, and part of her wishes things could be simple, that she could build a home with the red door and that she could rest under a lemon tree with those she had made her family... She lets that feeling fade.

She has to, if she is to cultivate something out of this kingdom of ashes that she promised herself she wouldn't sow.

But now... Now she knows this kind of carnage was another casualty that couldn't be avoided, because the old world wouldn't yield itself to the new without burning everything from the inside out, would choke and poison itself, immolated on the drunken power of tyrants who cared not for their people, everyone doomed long before she ever got close.

But she would prevail, because she was doing this for all of them, all the survivors, all the nameless people that didn't know anything better or anything else beyond the sad, sheltered lives they've lived, and for herself, and for all the people who had traveled across the sea to a home that wasn't theirs but could be, if they built it, if they changed what was left rotting in this husk of a city.

There was so much more she had to do. So many more things to achieve.

She would rule. She was born to rule, even if the world had been trying to fight and challenge her path from the very beginning, had tried to steal her birthright away.

And thinking of all that power, and all the wrongs she could right with it... That, more than anything, made all the bitter loss to get here matter. She'd lost so much, and those who remained had carried her to this very place, this place she'd been striving for even before the House that showed her her homeland before she'd ever set foot in it.

She reaches out to touch the throne, to feel the weight of it, to make it all feel real.

It's cold, in her hand, cold enough to startle. She would think from all the fire that it would be warm. Almost like it's alive.

There's a prickle on the back of her neck, like she's being watched, and she turns to see Jon.

He walks so quietly, like there's little weight to distribute on his feet, silent enough that it's almost as quiet as the motionless dead before it turned into a screeching mass of something hungry for blood, a memory Dany would never be able to scrape from her mind ever since she flew North and lost her child to the mob below, and the icy eyes staring back from white faces.

Then the echo of the fire, of Drogon's power when they took her home back, warms her, makes the constant fear melt, ever so slightly, and she knows when they face that true horror again, that they will be ready. But they had to stop fighting a war on both fronts, if they wanted to face the might of the dead head-on.

Otherwise... It's fitting, that her only living relation should behold her taking the one thing that was their birthright alone, now hers because he didn't want it. And as much as Daenarys feared the whispers of people who until now would likely contest her claim, she knows those whispers are not, ultimately, Jon's fault, even if he was too honest, honest enough to have a sword stuck in his back more than once if he wasn't careful.

Jon just trusted the wrong people. Because he believed in them. Because he thought they were ultimately not scared, not fragile sheep too used to cruel shepherds to truly see the freedom and abundance they could share in if they had other options, other rulers showing them the way.

Because he was a good man, with a kind heart, and too much kindness was not something with kept one's vision of the future alive, at least not alone.

And while Danaerys knows all the things power can do, she knows power is not something Jon has wanted to carve out from the world.

He doesn't see that power is what makes kindness, makes trust, possible.

But that's why she can afford to trust him more than most, even if she can truly trust no one at all save for Missandei and Grey Worm and Jorah. All the others had proven that they were not honest in their devotion, and that, more than anything, was why Dany knew she had to protect him. It's why she can't let him be armed in her presence, even though she knows he'd never actually hurt her. It's the principle of the thing. Removing temptation or the things that might sway his mind against her and confuse him, because for all the things Jon has seen and what he knows, he can be woefully blind to those trying to influence him, as proven by his blind faith in his sister.

Jon could rally people, bring them together, care for them, see the good in everyone. But he didn't know how to keep himself safe, not from dangers that didn't surface from clashes of iron swords and gnashing teeth of dead men that should not be moving. Human dangers eluded him, even if he could fight magical threats with a fearlessness and sense of purpose and duty like no one else Dany ever met.

\--

When Jon walks into the throne room, Dany smiles at him, and Jon tries not to hate her for it.

He doesn't hate her.

He just doesn't understand, how she could see everything that happened, how she could let it happen, any of it-

She promised she would be better. That things would be different.

But everything is as bloody and awful as it's always been, and Jon can't stop seeing one dead girl, another dead boy, swords through their chests or cut throats or mouths dripping blood, caked in masonry and dust and ash if they weren't trampled.

Jon can still see the unarmed man he stabbed before he called for a retreat. Can still see the way he crumbled and his eyes rolled back and tried not to think of it, tried not to feel the blood staining his hands...

Tried not to imagine blue eyes blinking back at him, everyone rising from the floor, and pretended that wasn't worse, even though, right now, he almost feels it is deserved, for all the blood they spilled to get here.

For all the things she asked them to do.

But then she speaks, and Jon doesn't dare to hope that whatever she has to say, that it will somehow make the lead fire burning him from the inside out, the prickling feeling of all the things they have done to somehow seem like a way forward, that this never, ever will happen again.

There are no words that will save them from this, even if they can't go back.

\--

Dany turns back from him to look at the throne once again, lost in thought.

"When I was a girl my brother told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon's fallen enemies." She turns back to him, too at ease for Jon's liking, too lost in her own dreams to see what is right in front of her right now, and she smiles, a faraway look that has no right to be as calm and triumphant as it is. "What do a thousand swords look like in the eyes of a little girl who can't count to twenty? I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb, so many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon's feet..."

Jon finally pushes past the silence of his own fury, and hoarsely manages, "I saw them executing Lannister prisoners in the street."

The smile wipes itself off Dany's face, but Jon isn't done, and keeps staring her down. 

And despite choking on the ash and fallen stone, Jon's strangled voice carries that same edge that gives it the power to reverberate across the room, "They said they were acting on your orders."

"It was necessary." Dany starts in, voice too even, too calm, too collected, and Jon can't take that removed, remote wall between her and the rest of the world anymore.

"Necessary? Have you been down there? Have you seen?" Jon demands, and then his voice breaks when he shouts, "Children, little children, burned!"

Dany stares back at him, silent and still.

When she talks, her voice is almost a whisper, but at least it lost that maddening calm and suffers the weight of what was done in her name.

"I tried to make peace with Cersei." Dany pauses, collects herself, does not break eye contact, "She used their innocence as a weapon against me." And then her expression breaks, through, half-crumbles even as she tries to build the walls back up again. "She thought it would cripple me."

There is more left unsaid there, worse answers, but Jon can't find the energy to ask if being crippled by the thought of burning innocents would matter.

"And Tyrion?" His words bite, gnashing behind his teeth, too-heavy in his throat, but there's a new fear there, now, a fear Jon can't keep hidden.

Dany hesitates.

"He conspired behind my back with my enemies." She says, quieter now, walking closer, and then the sharpness cuts the air, the weight of more than one betrayal heavy on her tongue. "How have you treated people who have done the same to you, even when it broke your heart?"

Jon breathes in deep, looks at his feet, and tries to reign in the feeling of everything spinning out of control.

"Forgive him." He begs, voice low.

 "I can't." Dany answers, head held high. She cannot suffer another betrayal, not anymore.

"You can." Jon argues, voice hoarse until it isn't, and he steps closer to her, tries to meet her halfway. "You can forgive all of them." The vehemence, the desperation, it all blurs together in every too rushed syllable, every begging demand, but Jon tries to smile, tries to make her see that destruction will only coat their hands in more blood that they cannot wash clean. Jon knows he sounds lost, broken like a child trying to make sense of a world gone mad, and maybe he's naive, but he'd rather pray for and forge a world make from people working together than being ripped apart. "Make them see that they made a mistake. Make them understand. Please, Dany."

 _I can't bear any more war, any more excuses for people to break each other and call it just._  

Dany closes her eyes, unable to wipe the look off Jon's face from behind her eyelids. When she opens them again, her eyes are wet, but as soft as her voice remains, it brooks no argument.

"We can't hide behind small mercies. The world we need won't be built by men loyal to the world we have."

"The world we need is a world of mercy." Jon answers, resolute. Unbending. "It has to be."

"And it will be." Dany insists, "It's not easy, to see something that's never been before." Her voice becomes too gentle, promising too many things Jon wishes he could believe in, but he hangs on for dear life and can't contemplate the alternative. "A good world." Dany whispers, zealous and sure, placing her hand on Jon's breastplate, a comfort without true reprieve.

"How do you know?" Jon whispers, begging, directionless for too long, too many butchered men haunting his footsteps, wishing he had her certainty. "How do you know it would be good?"

"Because I know what is good." Dany answers. She keeps staring him, eyes too bright, unblinking. Not seeing all the ashes in front of her, until she looks at Jon and truly sees him and all the broken things behind his eyes, adding, "And so do you."

"No, I don't." Jon breathes.

"You do. You do, you've always known." Dany assures, and when Jon's gaze falls and his brow furrows and his lip twitches, she hugs him closer.

Jon swallows.

"What about everyone else? All the other people who think they know what's good?"

And he pictures Sansa, Arya, Sam, Tormund, the people of Winterfell, of the Wall, and all the other nameless people who had the right to make their own way in the world, and he tries not to picture them burning alive.

"They don't get to choose." Dany says, her voice steel, her expression cold, and when Jon goes white, can't meet her eyes no longer, she holds his around her shoulder, hand still on his chest, and begs, "Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason. It has been from the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard's name and I was a little girl who couldn't count to twenty. We do it - together. We break the wheel together."

 "You are my queen. Now and always." Jon answers, and then he hesitates, her look of accepting all the fallout of this war too fresh in his mind. But he can't lie to her. Too many people have lied, and he's tired of it, no matter what kind of chaos it will bring. All lying has ever done is drawn out the inevitable, and even if he regrets that the truth leads down many roads, not all of them good (how can it not, when he still remembers all the iron shoved in his chest), it doesn't change the fact he would do it all again, out of principle. The moment you abandon what is right is the moment everyone falls. "But I can't love you the way you want me to. And I can't fight anymore. Not like this."

"I'm not asking you to. All I'm asking is that you stay with me. Trust me. You can change their minds, Jon. I know you can. And everything will be better, because they'll see we're going to help them, we're going to save them. And they will bend the knee."

"And if they don't?"

Jon buries his head in her hair, and lets Dany hold him tighter.

She says nothing. Promises nothing, and Jon's rasping words burst from him, unable to be swallowed and silenced.

"Please don't kill them. Please don't kill my family."

Jon won't let her do it, won't let her choose this path, or let his family suffer under the wrath of anyone else or let innocent people burn because Dany didn't see the truth of what she was asking of everyone.

But he still can't abandon her.

He needs her. They all need her, if they are going to fight the Dead and win.

And while he can't claim clean hands, he can at least try to ask that she see what's she's wrought, what's she's chosen, and step back before anything like this ever happens again. 

He knows, somewhere, deep down, that she knows this is wrong. That he thinks she'll hesitate, when she has to stare down his family and demand blind obedience. That the part of her that wants to be good, that wants to make a better world and doesn't need to bathe the earth in flames to do it, is somewhere in there, still.

And maybe... Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can prove her trust right, but not in the way she thinks. Maybe he can convince her to be the person he knows is in there, even if she is lost and blinded by all the wrong things she thought she needed to do to get here.

And if she won't... 

Jon knows what he'll have to do. Who he'll side with. But he doesn't want to choose.

He's tired of choosing and choosing wrong and everyone suffering for it.

But before they can say anything about it, before Jon can explain why Dany can't choose for everyone else, how it's not the solution, before they can talk about how to fight Cersei and rebuild and manage any kind of inadequate reparations for the broken city, there is a rumble of thunder, and approaching clouds, and cackling ravens with cries scattered on the wind.

A shadow falls over King's Landing, not the blanket of ash that made the sky grow dark but something even more impermeable, as if the sun had completely gone out.

Drogon roars.

And when Dany pulls away from him, she's staring at the snow on her hand, snow that had mixed with the ashes and was also indistinguishable for how very cold it burned, unmelting and unnatural.

Jon runs and lifts Longclaw from beyond the doorway, Dany rushing to mount Drogon and survey the skies.

 _They shouldn't be here yet_ , Jon thinks, knowing he's being stupid and wondering if the sinking, sickly feeling that's made him feverish and sick this whole time wasn't just guilt and loss and self-hatred but the knowledge of something rushing closer, something watching them-  _Bran was supposed to warn us, we were supposed to have more time..._

And that thought starts a panic that is even worse than before, that Jon has to shut down because if he thinks about what that means, then he won't be able to fight at all. _If Winterfell has already fallen... If everyone is already dead..._

When Jon looks out from the broken side of the crumbled, collapsed walls, all the dead strewn bodies littering the city streets, they all move with twitching limbs as one unit, slowly rising to their feet, all staring in the same direction-

All craning their necks up at him.

Winter has come early, and with hardly any warning at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> immediately following this conversation: interrupting NK yay!
> 
> also I don't know how people look at the things Dany asks of Jon and think it's a healthy romance with Jon being in the wrong? Dany's spiel is very Anakin Skywalker killing the younglings and blaming Padme. e.g. Everything I did, I did it for us, ergo it was justified, can't you see?
> 
> I mean, hell, she talks about children dying and noncombatants being murdered as being necessary for rebuilding the world. The moment you try to make a new utopia by discarding everyone else who disagrees and who just wants to live their lives but you need their validation or submission first, you've failed in your utopia and humanitarian causes.
> 
> And even before that, like, yeah isolate yourself from your family you've just been recently reunited with. Yeah, let me threaten your sister because what I want is more important than genuine respect for other people and your family and the people you love. Yeah, go on and hide who you are for my own peace of mind because your identity is a threat to my self-perception and ambitions. Pretend for my sake. Prove you love me.
> 
> Do you know how much irl bullshit that matches up with people being in the closet, or people having to hide who they are because someone is controlling and needs to shape you to their own identity?
> 
> Anybody tries that in real life you should be running as far away as possible, holy shit.
> 
> Also, Dany's flaws are that she knows she's more ambitious and bloodthirsty despite her want to be a humanitarian icon and genuinely wanting people to be okay- she wants people to be free and safe, but only on her terms and how she defines it and when it's not a threat to her goals. She isn't mad. She's painfully aware of how far she is willing to go to get what she wants. That's her fatal flaw, she chooses fire and blood over peaceful governance because she craves power and adoration and control and feels like only her way is what will bring people safety but more importantly, her own sense of self and stability. She needs to be seen as good and right and lauded for it. It doesn't change the fact that she'll protect people she sees on her side and can feel love (with black and white morality, much like Anakin), or that she doesn't feel empathy or compassion for children or slaves or other people, but she wants to be seen as a messianic figure and hold power and to get revenge for perceived wrongs and the way her life turned out, and the power itself wouldn't be an issue (because she doesn't want to see herself as a victim again), but it's the fact that she discards her kindness and morality in the name of power because she decides those values are a liability and not worth it. That's her whole tragedy. She wants to be a humanitarian in her head, when she's really about herself.
> 
> Otherwise- I can see why Jon did what he did in the episode, and I think he saved a ton of people, but I dislike the narrative setup and tropes that demanded an ambitious, powerful morally flawed woman got slain for moral sanctity and out of a sense of duty and no other options once persuaded by the old guard of ppl in power, particularly when it seems antithetical to Jon's character and the fact he is so tired of people dying. I also dislike that it forced Jon into the role he had as the judge and jury and executioner on a symbolism level when Jon didn't ask for this, and that Jon had to suffer losing someone he did care about in the name of saving thousands. It just left a bad taste in my mouth because it was a disservice to Dany (her paranoia would not let Jon have a weapon around her), it was a disservice to Jon (he did not want this, he just wants everyone alive and safe and for there to be mercy in the world, he wouldn't have wanted any of this or to be the one to make that call), and it was sloppy on a meta-implications level because God forbid Jon or anyone else tries any other way to stop her first without betrayal in this direct way. Jon would've wanted to be direct and honorable about it, not slipping a knife through her ribs in horror, to explain the only reason he did it was to stop more children and innocent people from dying. Hell, Jaime and Sansa could've done some really cool narrative parallels with that instead, and Jon could've been shielded from the horrible fallout of the writer's giving him this role.
> 
> Like, I could see Sansa doing something to nullify Dany and it could've been engaging and morally/politically complicated and not buying into "fridge a surviving powerful morally complicated woman in the name of preserving old power structures even if the one doing it clearly did so out of panic and pain and fear for the safety of everyone else" despite how far they came, and you could have Dany die without it falling into tropes that leave us with a stagnant system. I still wish she just decided that the throne wouldn't make her happy.


	6. Stone Cold (segment in progress)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately following King's Landing being sacked, Dany and Jon get a visitor.
> 
> And by visitor, Winter is Here and it's ready to rumble.
> 
> Chapter title once again a song from Crypt of the Necrodancer. 
> 
> (you can ignore this segment right now it's not finished at all, I just want to post it to make myself write things in order)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Night King flying at mach speed 20 on his way to steal your man nyoom
> 
> anyway, writing this at the same time as The Winter Soldier, these two are the next on my list to complete to get the beginning into some semblance of coherence

Jon covers the steps leading to the keep, making his way down the other side as he cuts down two more wights headed for Grey Worm.

Ghost runs past and makes a few evasive maneuvers, then soon disappears back into the swarm of dead, finding a path to avoid getting hemmed in.

When they start to get swarmed, Jon sheathes his sword and leaps off the side on to Rhaegal, one arm grabbing Grey Worm's hand, the other holding on to Rhaegal for dear life.

\--

When they tumble to the ground, Ghost runs to Jon's side, taking down one of the wights running up to catch Dany while she's prone.

 

\--

Viserion's blue flame hisses beyond Jon's edge of vision, coating the throne in a fire that burns so cold that the blades making its foundations shatter throughout the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time I make a chapter title from Crypt of the Necrodancer, all I can do is imagine the NK and others and wights have a disco party while they wait for a dragon so they can tear down the wall
> 
>  
> 
> anyway aside from other reasons causing delays, on a story level one of the reasons is I'm still trying to figure out when to knight Brienne since I loved that scene but this timeline is different.


	7. The Winter Soldier (segments also in progress)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleganebowl, also some Cersei and Jaime and Brienne, gonna try and expand on this tomorrow. 
> 
> Happens concurrently the chapter which immediately follows Flesh and Bone (and that's Jon and Dany POV in KL). 
> 
> Chapter title from the song of the same name because I couldn't resist a good pun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also not done yet and it's got end chapter spoilers now so read with caution if you care about WIPs and spoilers.

"Why won't you fucking die?" The Hound snarls. His sword grates against his brother's own, keeping him fenced in and  trapped against the side of the Keep from where Cersei tries to make her escape.

\--

But Sandor isn't looking at Arya, Brienne, Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion, Missandei, or Brienne any longer.

No, he's looking behind them, back at the fallen corpse of his brother with a sword through his skull and his jaw still half-ripped off for where Sandor bit him to break free, and Sandor's eyes widen, mouth going slack as Gregor twitches, neck cracking, and rises back to his feet.

His eyes are blue.

"Run!" Arya yells, and Sandor drags her back to the horse as they try to make a break for the beach.

All attempts to kill each other are forgotten, because anyone who fell now would rise back up, and only try to drag everyone else down with them.

 

\--

When they get to the boats, there is already ice starting to form on the docks, sealing the few boats unlucky enough to be moored closer to shore.

"Here!" A voice yells- Yara, Arya recognizes.

Arya and The Hound leap up on the battered ship, helping with the gib and tack that Yara isn't manning, concerned with getting them at a better angle at the harsh wind blowing.

Jaime grabs Cersei and hauls her up on the ship, while Brienne keeps Tyrion from stumbling into the water thanks to the ice and his injured leg.

Behind them, the ice creeps closer, and out of the growing storm and fog, rolls new ships, ones with tattered sails, and when they look at the crew all they see are pinpricks of blue staring back.

\--

(Missandei and Grey Worm on a dragon with Dany and/or Jon, flying over, intersects with ending of other chapter)

\--

The sea is half frozen eighty feet back- the Others having brought Winter with them, with no thought for walls or borders.


	8. Chaos Is A Ladder (99.9% done minus a couple paragraphs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon and the Night King and Bran and the Stark family trying to protect Bran. (Occurs right before the chapter Stalker and immediately after The Winter Soldier, which is also in progress still.) 
> 
> Partial S803 rehash, but with a twist, because I actually really liked a lot of the episode and I needed something to break my current moratorium on creativity.
> 
> The pacing in whack in this, sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still need to add Dany facing the NK and the dragon riding sequences from the ep, and some warging stuff after the ending parts of this, but other than that this is mostly done.
> 
> If you are wondering why the chapter title is from a quote earlier on when the NK is the one we're focusing on now and not the sword throne shuffle, it's because I wanted to draw parallels to the 3er and Littlefinger.
> 
> But yeah, the ambient soundtrack for this section is still The Night King ost because that track is heaven.
> 
> also sorry if this is kinda meh, my writing is fighting me tooth and nail and I'm just doing badly lately. but at least stuff got done
> 
> but recently I've been considering just deleting all my stories out of frustration with myself and my inability to write in order or finish things, but I'm just waiting for that dumbass urge to pass because I don't actually want to delete anything I'm just struggling with other things and wanting to destroy things I genuinely enjoy making is just a component of that, and being paranoid about being too open in my notes is just another side effect of whatever the fuck this emotion is
> 
> luckily I have my neverending spite knowing that I hated most of S8 so much that I can't hate my unfinished stuff more
> 
> and I have my love of the source material with all the characters I love and the stories I eventually want to tell so this too shall pass and I'm gonna try to write more to counteract this dumbass feeling

The fire dies away, and when it does, he can't help but look up and smile.

It's petty and bittersweet. But he had been a proud man, once, and old habits die hard, even if he's done his best to smooth them over for thousands of years beyond the wall.

Here, the temptation is too great. The proud cannot bear to have their sense of invulnerability challenged, only to have their own weapon turned against them.

And this one... Ah, this one moves her dragons and chess pieces around so much like Rhyllor once did, a queen who claims conquest in the name of justice when all it would sow is more blood.

She did not know any better, perhaps, even if youth is not an excuse for being blind to the truth.

It matters little. She would fall, slain or frozen. Either would spare her and the people of the world the folly of her actions. Whether it came to pass now or later, it would come to pass all the same.

One is not patient without cause, and the Night King been ready long before this last Targaryen, willing to break this cycle longer than she'd ever conceived of it- even as she unwittingly propagates the same wheel now.

He is not hers to reap.

Fire cannot burn a dragon. And despite the undeath he chose, and the truth the Night King remains a Stark in his icy bones, once, Azor Ahai had been the blood of his blood, both Wolf and Dragon, and that bond would not be broken. Not after his death, and not now, after his rebirth.

It was foretold.

The Night King knew would reap this girl, too, this woman who is just as young and shortsighted as the rest of them with good intentions that reaped only ash. He'd protect her from the legacy she had become an unwitting pawn to, the same curse Rhyllor had resurrected- the same cycle Azor Ahai had once stopped in it's tracks, only for it to wake from it's slumber once the comet carved its path.

Unknowing, Jon Snow follows in his own past footsteps.

But it would not end like it did the first time.

No, this time, it was ending once and for all. On his terms, and no one else's, because not ending it had been the worst mistake of all.

Best to freeze them out than let the fire claim any more collateral, when it has already claimed too much.

Drogon flies the opposite direction, Danaerys hunched close where she sits, both of them entangled in a tactical retreat before the last of her children could be lain low as Rhaegal and Viserion had been.

The Night King hefts his spear with practiced balance, and lets loose his grip.

It grazes the edge of Danaerys' jaw, missing by only a hair...

It would not miss forever.

Relentless, the Night King continues down the hill to the Godswood, where Bran and his true enemy are waiting.

\--

Jon draws his sword.

He walks in the shadow of the Night King's footfalls, always following and breaking into the shallowest run he can muster, as if the Night King doesn't know he's there.

Jon Snow doesn't know who he is yet, and yet he has remained the same.

The Night King lets him give chase.

He will make his cause known, will explain their true purpose only once Bran is safe and the Raven dealt with.

Hurrying is for the doubtful, for the afraid, for the last throes of the living who are spurred by the knowledge that their time is running out, and that is not his place any longer, not when this night of eternal winter has only begun and he is it's instrument.

It is beneath him, only for what it's very existence betrays.

Sentiment has it's place for those with a heart, with a soul, with memory, but it is still grounded in the echo of a man. It cannot stand in the war of his higher purpose: protecting the innocents, bereft and misplaced and powerless against wars of other mortals who thought themselves higher than all the others.

Still- there is something comforting, flattering, perhaps, knowing that Jon still is drawn to him and ready to face a battle he dares not think himself capable of winning, but is willing to try anyway, his mortal fear naked and bare on his face and every twitching tendon and muscle despite his fear of death lingering no longer.

His fear is for others, not himself.

Not many living men can claim such a feat.

The Night King turns to face him, halting and measured, the line between them too far and yet just close enough...

Jon stops short. His expression curls with a ragged edge of panic and anticipation, and he inhales heavily from sheer sense memory, forgetting he needs it not.

The Night King raises his arms, and wakes a second life into his newest charges. They are not sacrifices or pawns; every man, woman, and child is part of the wave of a singular writhing, undying sea. All their hopes and dreams and questions are quiet, but they would break and feel loss no more.

Jon runs to breach the distance, frantic, gasping, icy air making his movements jagged and stilted even as the cold preserves what remains of his battered, bruised body.

He's ready to strike the Night King down where he stands, to end this war, desperate to reach him before the dead can overwhelm. 

He will fail.

But it is a sight to see. Breathtaking, even if the Night King lungs could only vaguely recall such sensations.

As much as he would rather savor this moment, they cannot afford to waste time. There is no rush, yet for all his patience, the Night King tires of waiting.

Like him, Jon does not let himself be easily distracted from his priorities, for they both have not lost sight of what matters most, even if Jon still thinks they are in opposition.

No, best to be safe. For all his virtues, Jon still has a habit of being hasty, of being distracted by single-minded purpose, and the Night King, as much as he's looking forward to finally seeing this through, knows that that same shared intensive focus is a recipe for disaster.

More level-headed men had fallen to passion more than any other vice, and being eager did nothing but allow for mistakes to happen. It would not do to indulge flights of fancy, even if the Night King would like nothing more than to face him, and test this man he knows, and yet who does not remember him.

The dead hem Jon in, slow and sure, and in spite of his goal, Jon does not raise his sword.

He stays frozen, halting, trapped in a ring of wights that do not attack- not yet.

If the Night King could have his wish they would not attack at all, for Jon was not his enemy.

Jon notes the hesitation- maybe chalks it up to distraction, to the time it needs to gather their minds and unify their network together, although that would be a lie and somewhere, deep down, his barely beating heart knows it.

He could have been torn him limb from limb if the Night King wanted so many times, but he has not wanted that, not for him- and Jon knows he's been too lucky for it to have been mere coincidence.

Perhaps that's why his mouth parts and his expression is one of almost betrayal, even if he feels he has only betrayed himself for not being able to end this and not knowing why the Night King waits when his hand has spared no other. 

There is a glimmer of recognition reflected in Jon's eyes in the red of the flames. His uncertain, halting pause lingers, and Jon carries himself with the same singular stillness that caught hold of him at Hardhome when he stood as arrested as the Night King when their eyes met across the bay. The same tilting, raw feeling as they stared each other down when Viserion was slain and the Night King prepared to loose another round on Drogon and all his passengers. Jon had held him off then, but there had been no lake to keep him from being taken or insulated from the onslaught of wights save for whatever twisted mercy lingered in the Night King's piercing gaze.

Something had surged to life between them from the moment they had met- had then, and had done so long before the flames took hold and Jon died and rose again- and even Jon can feel it, this prickling foreboding sensation that remains unnamed and unacknowledged.

They are more similar now, and yet unlike, trapped in a cycle that would not be broken.

Through it, Jon suspects some ulterior motive, even if he knows not what it could be, when all it would take is a few more frantic steps and the swing of his arm to force the Night King to retaliate directly.

He doesn't stir.

The wights huddle closer.

The Night King looks down when he turns away, not permitting any creeping emotion to filter through while he keeps his eyes cast down to the dirt.

\--

When the wights finally attack, Jon retaliates with a fury borne by confusion and self-hated and the constant, slippery metallic fear for the living that has not left since he saw the dead first rise.

He does not know what new evil keeps him in thrall, what stayed his hand, what kind of sorcery ties this dead king to him, just as he does not know how he hasn't been devoured yet.

There are so many of them, too many to break through, there wasn't enough time-

And they had plenty of chances of killing him back North, and they didn't. Just like they are barely attacking him now, just strong enough to keep him occupied and on guard but not nearly as fast and vicious as the ones who attacked everyone else have been.

Jon knows he isn't special, just as he knows this is some kind of a game to this monster, from how it toyed with people's lives and made their corpses puppets and from how it smiled at Dany.

He'd thought it was emotionless and inscrutable once, but now he knows this monster is arrogant, that it can feel, and that it has not yet seen a worthy opponent because otherwise it would be afraid.

No, Jon was nothing to it, inconsequential, but that is the only thing Jon knows, because he does not know why he's been spared.

He'd survived falling under the water, had not died or frozen or lost himself.

But the dead and their king could have taken him and made him one of them then, unless they already knew he was doomed to failure and was just as much a corpse already.

Jon cuts down every wight in his path, and keeps carving his way to his brother and monster that had just looked at him, looked at him too long, and then just continued on it's way.

Like Jon was a fly to be swatted (even if there had been some other emotion there that Jon did not want to recognize on the Night King's face). Admitting that would only confuse him more, and he did not need answers any longer.

All he needed was to break through, and protect what remained of his people and his family and the living that remained.

\--

The Night King's children enter Winterfell as a unit, clearing the path, unmoved by everything. They will build an empty world, a better world, one cleansed of human pain, all this sacrifice part of the ritual to earn a new paradise.

They cut down everyone in their way, a vehicle to witness the future.

The Night King follows them through the clearing, to where the Godswood waits.

He watches the one adopted by the Stark's, once their prisoner, then a traitor, now a free man who is not yet free, guarding the body of his great-grand nephew and the parasite he hosts within.

The Greyjoy boy knows he is fighting a battle he cannot win, and yet fights anyway, panting and nearly doubling over but fighting all the same, because he had let too many things happen in this place and he must makes amends where he can.

The Night King respects that.

He understands.

But this boy need not fight any more battles for anyone else.

Not anymore.

\--

The Raven tries to scry him, to steal some kind of glimpse of what to do, if he can make his escape into this boy who now protects him, or how to take control of the ones the Night King raised...

But the Night King has grown stronger than his elder brother over the years, strong enough to keep him out and keep his charges safe, and they both know it.

Those bodies, housing innocent people reborn and reanimated, the ones the Night King would re-awaken once this last war ends litter the clearing before the Godswood- let them all rest now, in this homeland, where the dead can die no longer.

He made a promise.

Just as the Night King cannot let his great-grandnephew be a host to an evil as violent as the flames, he cannot let the man who protects him suffer so, either.

There can be no survivors here, not if the one who was once his brother is to die this day.

\--

Outside the Godswood, the Night Kills peers out from Viserion's eyes, hears Jon Snow shout in rage and pain and defiance, and keeps him pinned down, too far away to interfere.

He will be reunited with his family later, after the Raven is dealt with and cannot claim another innocent life as his own. When it is safe, truly safe, in a way Winterfell hasn't been for so long.

Perhaps the flames that breathed new life into him would keep the Raven or any other control from taking root, but it was not something to be left to chance.

Too many gambles have taken the North from its rightful place, have gifted it to invaders and cruel men that were not or no longer their own, and the true power in the North will not let such vagaries stand.

The children the Night King has adopted as his own walk behind him, in lockstep, ready to reclaim this weirwood in the name of the winter that made it grow.

The Night is dark and full of terror, but fear is only the fever breaking before they provide a cure.

\--

Theon sees him walk closer. Sees the gleaming line of blue eyes paused there, observing beyond the ice and snow, and he readies himself.

The Night King does not wish to cause him pain.

Even if that is inevitable.

The boy, man though he may be, he is young, they are all so young-

So let him die brave and foolish, like all men do.

Let him die in the service of someone only stalling time, so that his body cannot be taken and used.

Let him die and be reborn, and know there is no fear any longer.

There will be no more hesitation. 

They have waited long enough.

\--

Theon looks back at the one who he thinks is his brother, the one he'd once betrayed, the one he thinks he is now protecting, a tear running down his cheek.

"You are a good man." The one who was once his brother says, Bran and the Raven both in consensus even if they know there is no coming back from this.

He was good in a way the Raven had never been, a kinslayer without regret looking at a kinslayer who did, and the Raven  is prepared to cast him off, to use him like a tool as he does all good men, hating this one who had slain his own only to turn back and do all he can to make amends. Someone who realized the blood staining his hands and thought there was absolution and forgiveness, that being brave now meant the past could somehow be forgotten. 

But the past will never be forgotten. The Raven knows it, cultivates it, and despite his little brother's plans, he knows one cannot make a good man out of a weak one. And Theon Greyjoy was that and more, pliable and ready to die as every penitent man who came before him.

Theon turns away from Bran and the Raven he can't see lurking inside his head, and looks upon what he thinks is the end of his story.

\--

The Night King steps forward. Stops. Acknowledges this boy, this man, who thinks that they are enemies.

He pauses for one small moment.

Recalls a different head buried face-first in the sand, mouth filled with sand and water, the body half-drowned with blue lips-

Only for unseeing eyes to wake up, bathed in gold, when his little brother was turned from a dead man into a weapon to be used against him, into a puppet for his elder brother who was his brother no longer, to kill others and to slay his own kin.

To slay him because he was too weak to face him and do it himself.

And the Night King hadn't stopped it, had hesitated, and so had failed his little brother he'd raised in the pines and the snow and the rolling hills of the north all those years ago (had raised just like his elder brother had done for him as he grew), and remembers the fear he'd felt and thought he'd forgotten.

He lets himself feel it, just the once, as a reminder- because all this was his fault. He had been too much of a coward to stab the littlest one first and lay his claim on his body, to keep him safe and asleep as the dreaming dead so that no one else could do the same, just as he had been a coward to face Rhyllor and see him for what he truly was and is.

And the Night King remembers teaching living brother how to sail, how to tie knots, how to track the stars and hunt deer and follow the wolves when they howl and to hide from bears where they nest in saves and pits of snow.

He remembers dragging his little brother's newly fallen corpse out to sea, baptizing him in the waves, to bring him back thrice after two other deaths had laid him low.

\--

Now he watches this boy, this young, living boy, the boy with his brother's blood who had been born again in the ocean waves, ready his spear, and accepts this sacrifice as necessary, too.

He would not make the same mistakes, would not spare him from true mercy.

His little brother had suffered enough.

The children of his children and their descendants should not suffer the same fate.

\--

Theon Greyjoy runs at the Night King, knowing the next time he wakes, his will might not be his own.

He charges anyway, his screaming the only evidence of the life he's left to say.

\--

The spear catches on his fist easily, snapped in twain. It rams through Theon's abdomen, sharp and quick and burning.

It's a death that kills slow enough to keep his memory, perhaps, if the Night King is careful, but still quick enough to ensure the Raven would claim no one else this night or any night after.

The Night King watches as Theon dies, watches the air leave his lungs, looks him in the eye as he stares back, honest and without anything to hide- the boy knowing there was no other ending and yet afraid all the same, feeling as if he's failed even though he has not, not at all- and the Night King does not stop looking at him, honoring his memory, his futile battle in a war that is not his responsibility, not even after he falls to his knees and on his side, grasping for air that will not come, coughing up only blood.

Theon was a worthy, brave man in the end, brave enough to face down a king of no man, and he would not die forgotten or used.

He's safe now. He will always be safe.

All the other free folk would die the same.

And like the Starks perhaps this one would be been given a chance to choose peace or purgatory, to decide whether they will watch the free men dream or if they too would embrace a life without fear or emotion or regret.

\--

When the Night King looks back up at the man that was once his brother, and to his unwilling host, their great-grandnephew born so many years beyond them, and shows them his hesitation had died with his first death.

Bran's eyes catch his, see the truth there, and his head turns away.

The Night King wonders if he remembers strangling the youngest of them, if his hands recall drowning a brother below the sea, and wonders how long he's waited for this day to come, when they finally fought each other, face to face, without any other bodies for his brother to let come between them.

Before he'd been remade, he'd dreamed of all the ways his brother would fall, and of digging an empty grave for his brother and the funeral rites that would never be.

He doesn't dream any more.

And the Night King wonders if this time, little Bran is has taken back the reigns with some last gasp of unstoppable emotion wresting control away, the sight of another of his brothers dying too much to keep contained. He thinks he does- the boy twitches and holds himself hunched and smaller, with less haughty confidence than the one that nested there, the one that was once a man and who tried to steal his face.

The Night King takes one last look at Theon's body as it takes it's last breath, at the blood pouring out his mouth, at the eyes that lie open, unseeing...

He looks up and takes another step forward.

Another, and another.

No more obstacles. No more smokescreens. No more agonized waiting.

Winter was here: and it will wash past sins clean.

\--

The Night King walks through the flames. Towards what had been his home once.

Towards the place where his little brother planted a heart tree as a boy, patting the earth down where it would grow.

The Raven does not meet his gaze, not yet. Too busy trying to keep control, to keep their great-grandnephew's fighting spirit contained in the face of the death they both see coming, and the parasite inside him clamoring for any new path available to him to somehow stave off the inevitable.

The snow falls. Unbreakable. No way to turn back the tide.

The ground would sow no more seeds. The earth too hard to break.

But roots run deep.

And this one- this one the Night King would rip up forever, to break this weed that dared thrive in this place that was once all of theirs.

There can be no green in this new garden of ice. There can be no halting the future.

There is no escaping death.

Not when it had been so long coming.

\--

Jon rallies from behind the rock, sees Arya running towards the Godswood and cannot let the Night King see, cannot let him burn her alive with ice that topples cities.

"Go!" He screams, then louder. "Go!"

And the stares Viserion's open maw down, teeth gaping wide enough to swallow him whole and he prepares to shatter and freeze and burn from something colder than the very ice he could see dwelling underneath the Night King's skin.

\--

The Night King looks Bran Stark in the eyes.

Sees him staring back, sees him accept this, sees him drowning in all the history and memory the Raven uses to keep him contained, in all the ages they've lived and all the horrors they've seen, or orchestrated, or failed to stop, and sees the same fear on his face just like it had been before Bran's body had been stolen, a face from when he'd first laid eyes on the dead men and the weirwood and the Winter's chosen king, looking young and vulnerable and uncertain like any boy who'd seen his nightmares would.

The Night King tries to remember how to convey an emotion that might be comforting. That he's here. That he's been waiting to find him, to save him, like he could not save so many others-

And then Bran's face shifts, and his eyes grow flat, and the Night King tilts his head, and stares down the monster that was once his elder brother instead.

He looks out, unfocused and off-center, like he sees something just beyond him. And he cracks a small smile, exudes a total lack of fear, like he always has when he thinks he's played his brother and won.

_You cannot win, little brother. You never have. You never will._

**You never did lose gracefully.**

The Night King notes, and the sentiment does not make him pause.

It is not the first time the Night King has seen that face; but this time, it will be last.

Tinny and faintly muffled by the storm, Jon Snow yells even louder than before, and Viserion screams with him, a battle cry not meant for him but for the one he stares down now.

The Night King reaches for his blade, ready to exorcise his brother from where he's grown and choked out this poor boy like a weed-

Only to turn and catch his screaming, reckless grand-niece midair as she leaps towards him.

She chokes in his grip, half-immobilized, a face he's seen so many times in glimpses yet never in person.

She attempts to stab him.

He crushes her hand.

She drops the knife, in a trick he's seen her practice in Braavos and this very Godswood ever since she's found her way home, and they both glance down-

Her other hand catches the hilt.

She hits true.

The Night King stares at her, motionless and unharmed, the dragon-glass gaping out of his torso without any fanfare or effect. 

He has seen this all play out before, even if his brother tried to keep the future from his eyes, and even if he did not know the ending.

He doesn't need to know, because he will make the future his. He is death and night eternal. There is no other option.

He tosses Arya against the Weirwood, trying to be gentle, half-misjudging his own strength.

She gasps, winded, while the Night King adjusts his grip, placing a hand around her forehead so she's held up by the crest of her head, toes barely reaching solid ground.

This one, at least, will be safe from possession- becoming faceless makes her free of any potential infestation, so his brother cannot hijack her skin, and her warging ability means they can free her younger brother together, can kill the Raven and call Bran back to himself, killing one mind to save the other, body and soul.

He thinks she'll forgive the rough treatment, if it means protecting their family.

His eyes roll back, as do hers and Bran's, their minds meeting in a war with only one possible outcome.

"Goodbye, brother." The Night King says, the first words he's said in millennia aloud, for he has not had anyone else to hear them.

He is not mourning the monster.

He only grieves for the little boy they'd both raised, whose blood stained their home farther north, and all their other homes, stained the very the memory of this place and all the others they've lived, from Skagos to Hardhome and the Iron Islands and beyond, and all the people he'd loved and lost and fought for before the end.

The Night King frees his weapon from it's sheathe, and stabs Bran through the heart, pinning him to the heart tree through the chair he sits, ready to reap the soul hijacking his lungs and veins and body so only the true resident remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaac Hempstead Wright's and Vladimir Furdik's silent acting and eye contact was amazing in this segment. So was Kit's acting with all the desperation, and Sophie Turner's eye contact with Peter Dinklage, and Emilia Clarke's grief.
> 
> also Furdik's commentary during production on how the NK is angry and how he's like "okay you want me to be the Night King? Okay now I kill you."
> 
> I'm kinda going that tack but mostly diverging from it and preserving it another fic b/c in this one the Children didn't make the NK, the hostilities just restarted b/c the Children and the First Men resumed fighting and the NK intervened.
> 
> He's just angry for other reasons and that anger has turned cold.
> 
> also personal headcanon he just telepathically communicates with the Others
> 
> also in case it isn't clear he isn't affected by dragonglass b/c he's the Night King and technically more powerful than the other Others and the chosen of the Great Other so he's more OP, and b/c I just wanted to do that


	9. Stalker (SPOILERS, segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me just typing most of the main NK points I want to get across before I fully finish the chapter.
> 
> Chapter title a song by IAMX.
> 
> This is about chapter 8 or 10 ish, maybe a bit earlier, still figuring out how long I want to take to get him in a room with everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a spoiler.
> 
> NK and Jon and Bran and Arya and Sansa and Dany stuff. Also some Sam and Gilly.

The risen corpse of Viserion does not eat Jon.

It pauses, as if carved from stone, all the intention of the Night King leeching out of it.

Like it, the other wights all halt, motionless and still.

Waiting.

Arya screams.

Jon turns to the Godswood and runs as fast as his legs will carry him, only goal the heart tree, to Bran, to Arya, to whatever new horror this has become-

\--

Wherever they have gone in Bran's mind, it is placid and peaceful and horribly, horribly wrong.

Arya barely can keep herself afloat here, nauseous and barely conscious and trying to find footing that does not exist, half stuck in the past and the present as her brother watches times other than these, not quite present but not quite gone.

Next to her, the Night King walks, each step and rhythm measured.

She follows, weaponless and not quite able to catch up no matter how hard she tries.

Arya can still feel the cold mark from where he grips her head outside this place, and it's searing, stealing all thought from her mind...

\--

Inside Bran's head, there is a tree with it's own face, with roots that dwell deep below an ocean.

Next to the ocean is Winterfell, and Arya sees them, all of them, as children, running and laughing and untroubled and safe and alive as so many of them haven't been for so long.

The version of her that runs past is seven, pulling Sansa's hair while she complains.

Rickon throws a snowball at Robb.

Mother and Father are watching, sometimes reprimanding, but mostly talking to themselves.

Theon and Jon are oddly absent, like there's a gaping wound missing from the fabric of this memory...

And Arya remembers Theon's face, blood dripping down his mouth as his eyes stare lifeless at the sky-

Beneath her feet, the ground changes, turning to snow, with red, red blood running across it, leading forwards to the tree.

Inside, she thinks she hears hands rapping from the inside, and muffled noise, like someone is screaming to be let out.

The ravens are darkening the sky now, the roots thrashing from the ground and ripping apart the memory of summer like it is nothing, revealing only angry white tendrils of living tree beneath. The ravens whirl in a murderous frenzy, pecking at Arya's eyes until she's blind again, but she keeps making her way through, has to follow to the end-

"They cannot touch you. Steal their face. Steal their eyes. Steal their voice. Steal their names and take yours back." The Night King commands, and despite her wish to not listen to a word this thing says, something about it feels right, feels heavy and unstoppable and like a fight she wants to win, and then Arya is lashing out from the pressure in her head, ripping the ravens from the air and her tangled mess of hair. She throws their corpses with their three eyes at her feet while her face cycles into the many ones she's worn, eyes growing back when the assault is paused, a war-cry and her shallow breaths exhaling from scratched lips assaulted by raven's feet...

The Night King makes his way to the tree without anything so much as leaving a mark, and he rips the bark open, curls it back from the mouth of the face and down to the base of the tree.

He pulls a hand from inside it, and then the arm attached.

She knows that arm. It has the Night King's mark, and even if it didn't, she knows the scars that line her brother's hand, and the shape of it, the slope of his shoulders and the way his limp body gives when he tries to turn his head...

The Night King grabs her hand , and places it over Bran's wrist.

"Name yourself and call your brother back." The Night King commands, stepping back. "I will take mine from this mind, and gift him the grave he's dug himself into."

Bran's wrist is cold, too cold, as cold as ice when someone has fallen into a pond and then succumbs when they can't wake up-

Arya screams Bran's name.

And then he's yelling back, "Arya, Arya, I can't remember, I can't, he has me-"

Arya screams again, listing everything they've ever been and ever are and every loving word she's held on her tongue for her family-

"You are Bran Stark, my little brother, not a raven, not a tree. Come back, Bran, come home-"

Bran keeps repeating Arya's name, says her words back like a prayer.

And Bran lifts from where he's trapped, just slightly, until there's more give and Arya keeps pulling him from the tree with all her might.

There's a head visible, locks of matted hair and dried blood, then half his neck and torso, and more as she pulls him out, Bran's knees still locked and limp as she tries to cradle his shoulder and head against the curve of his broken spine and tries to carry him out of there-

Arya lifts him up, away from the tree, and then they both collapse to the earth from the effort and the ringing in their ears and the ravens diving from the skies, and Arya sits him down next to her, panting and their hands locked together, trying not to be ripped apart.

Until the earth breaks open and they fall and the roots try to swallow them whole-

Something flies past their heads, and ice crackles, freezing the roots, freezing the earth, keeping them in place, on solid ground where the rest of the tree has collapsed into the dirt.

There's a scream louder than any raven, louder and louder and-

Silence.

A spear is lodged just past their prone forms, buried in a crater beneath the exposed earth, in the core of beating heart of the tree where another corpse peers out, one hand outstretched, still trying to drag Bran down by his ankles back into the gravedirt.

The giant heart bleeds black blood, and it's faces white eyes are glassy and unseeing, and then ice shatters the remnant into nothing, spear and tree and all.

There is only ice now, ice and cold and dark... And the glint of two burning blue eyes.

A white hand pulls Arya to her feet, and then all she can see are white hands lift up her brother, pulling him from her grip, and the monster who forced her to follow him here, who refuses to die, carries him through the darkness-

Arya keeps screaming his name, keeps yelling that this monster can't have him, either, as she runs after him and her feet crunch upon black feathers and the dead bones of ravens, until her head hurts too much and it's too cold and her lungs feel like they are frozen and her voice gives and...

And then they are outside Bran's head, back in the real world where time is real, the hole in Bran's chest being sewn back up by a white-faced thing with long white hair.

The Night King's grip releases Arya's head, and she slumps to the ground, woozy, trying to get back up, but whatever sorcery is at work, the world feels tilted and out of focus, blurry and far away, her chest feeling caved in, like she's been buried under an avalanche too long...

"You did well." The Night King says, conversational, as if he didn't force Arya into this confrontation that she didn't even know was an option.

And while he had saved her brother from whatever that thing was, that doesn't mean he's any less an enemy.

There were too many dead bodies littering Winterfell for this monster to be anything else-

\--

Jon bolts into the Godswood, sword raised, ringing when it meets the Night King's blade, like he knew it would be swinging at his head, like he knew, because he was always watching...

\--

"Do you think you are the only one who ever thought to break the wheel? Did you think you were the first? No. We are not that different. Your war is a child's war, seen from a child's eyes. I have lived lifetimes. How long do you think I have waited?"

 

"We cannot create life, but we can preserve it. Extend it. Think of a world, full of people who cannot feel pain, or hunger, or loss. You call me cruel? For years, I have watched. And we know the truth. Only the living feel fear. And we wash that all away the moment they are reborn. I'm only saving you from yourselves."

 

"You can run as far as you like. Run to the edges of the earth. But there is nowhere for you to go. We are inevitable."

 

"We've watched you for a long time."

 

"They tried to steal you from me. But not even death or fire will keep you from your birthright."

 

"Perhaps you can teach me how to be warm again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the NK is silent until he becomes a chatty cathy whoop whoop
> 
> and then's he's creeping on Jon and all the Starks
> 
> and being a direct foil to Dany and Dany has to evaluate her life choices and priorities
> 
> also the whole wanting to catch the 3 eyed raven and bran and erasing history will be a relevant plot point, but with spin
> 
> but yeah you can't have that much sustained staring more than once, and Jon escaping a ton of zombies while the NK preens, and not make me think the NK was evil flirting
> 
> anyway if ppl know Dragon Prince S2, Aaravos's voice but softer is the vibe I'm going for with the NK's speech
> 
> will anything be as cool as silent and intriguing and terrifying the way the actor played him? probably not but if he's gonna speak his voice better match the caliber of acting


	10. Dance of the Decorous (DONE 5-23-19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, about chapter 11 ish.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Crypt of the Necrodancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest, I don't remember what happened to Ned's body, oh well. Body horror, you have been warned.
> 
> also tw: non-explicit noncon implications/allusions/fears. I'm not going to label every chapter because I'm worried I'll forgot and don't want to drop the ball, but I'll probably TW things when this is done so ppl can skip certain things if they want.

It's dark still. It's always dark now, save for the small torches and hearths the Night King allows the living prisoners of Winterfell to keep alive.

And like the other procession, the wights keep up their work, and carry Ned Stark's remains from the Crypts to the Weirwood circle along with all the other Stark remains, and no matter how hard Arya tries to rip them apart, more swarm in and keep the the ritual going, keep carrying her dead father towards whatever horrible future they have planned for him.

"Don't you dare touch him, don't-" Arya screams, and then she trips and begins being trampled by dead boots and rotting bones until the Night King holds up a hands, and the mob of dead parts around her.

Jon drags Arya up from the ground and holds her close, holds her as she strains towards the Night King to spit in his face.

\--

The Night King pins the remains of Ned Stark's headless body to the tree, dragonglass shard balanced in his hand, Ned Stark's neck suspended just below the face of the Old Gods every Stark prayed to. The Others circle around the Weirwood, silent, swaying, like there's a song they cannot hear.

Then the Night King pierces the place where Ned's heart would be, every gesture slow, deliberate, patient as he eases the dark glass in.

The snow and wind howl and coat all of Winterfell in squalls so heavy, Jon can barely see what happens next, but he gets glimpses.

The red leaves flash-freeze, and the limbs of the weirwood sway faster, undulating as if in the same dance as the others, and then there's blood seeping from the open mouth of the tree and then it's dark, too dark and cold and Jon can only clutch Sansa and Arya close to his chest, can't even see the tops of their heads right in front of him-

\--

When the snow clears, Ned Stark is standing again, head sewed to his neck, unnaturally still and skin pale as snow.

He still isn't breathing.

And when Jon looks in his eyes, there is blankness, no recognition, nothing.

\--

Robb's body is a surprise, but thankfully there's no wolf sewed on with him, only an empty stump like Ned's hewn neck had been, while Grey Wind's head was carried next to him. Jon didn't even think they had anything to recover. But the dead had swarmed and watched and fetched, and the Night King could see where every river ended, where every path would go, just like Bran, to recover what was lost, and that, more than anything, proves they were woefully unprepared for all that he could see, all that he could plan for...

The weirwood bleeds, and the air turns sharp and heavy and opaque, once more. This time, Jon can almost hear a phantom song humming through the night, like it's a half-remembered limb he almost can feel, and wonders if maybe he can hear it because he's not quite living, either.

Robb's head doesn't have a single scar to match his life, and Grey Wind rises with new, ragged limbs, mottled fur of his face still half rotted and mangled and damp with mold from the river, ice caked to his maw.

\--

Rickon gets resurrected second-to-last. He shares the same blank look, the same emptiness, and his small, tiny body stands heedless of the wind and ice and snow, with the same jagged stillness, right next to their father and elder brother.

\--

Theon is a surprise, but the Night King answers the question before they can ever ask and the final procession occurs.

"He was one of you, before his death. He was of our house in spirit. And even if he wasn't, we can always drag him to the open sea. Our blood there will revive him, sure as it does any drowned man who has seen our true face."

When Theon wakes up, Bran almost reaches for him, and his youth and loss, for once, is sure and clear on his face in a way it hasn't been for a long time. Not since his latest altercation with the Night King, when his mind was ripped into and Bran was remade; still Bran the greenseer, Bran the Warg, but a Three-Eyed Raven no longer.

But when Theon's glassy gaze stares at nothing, doesn't even turn to look at him, Bran muffles a sob and clasps a hand over his mouth to hide the pain, pain he'd forgotten how to feel until he was forcibly torn apart and stitched back together to his full self, even if there was a price and loss in the forced reclamation.

Sansa buries her head into Jon's chest ever further, eyes shut tight, not having dared to look once, not since she saw Ned's body and forced her eyes away. She couldn't bear to look, not again, not after it was her fault the first time and Jon had tried to tell her otherwise, but that's what she told Jon every time they had gone to pay respects thereafter anyway. Jon cradles her head while he keeps an eye out for any trick, any clue as to why this was happening. What the Night King could get out of this. What he hoped to gain.

Arya, however, has pulled away, and with open eyes has kept watching, her brown eyes glued to the pale figure of the King who surely had other reasons for bringing her family back in such a way, and she finds the expression on his face as frustratingly inscrutable as Jon does even as she vows some kind of payback for this mockery of what he thought they wanted.

\--

"Do not fear, Jon Snow. Fear is not for the likes of you." The Night King says, and when he approaches, places a hand on Jon's shoulder (and Jon suppresses a flinch, suppresses the need to shake him off and back away, because Arya and Sansa and Bran had all let Jon step in front of them, let him shield them, because for all the ways they have grown up, he is still their elder brother and he needs to protect them, needs to make them feel safe from this creature so different from them and yet far too similar to him).

But the Night King only has eyes for him at the moment, so Jon lets himself track the one threat he can't hold in check, not even if he tried his best. (And even while she stays slightly back, Sansa holds Jon's hand, and keeps shivering, and Jon recognizes the tightness of her face, and wonders if she is considering stepping forward and screaming in the Night King's face like Arya, vowing to burn this thing to the ground with even more fervor than her sister, and is only keeping quiet because she knows words will not help anyone here and would only serve to encourage him.)

When Jon doesn't answer, the Night King keeps talking. It's funny- before he spoke, Jon wondered what drove him, wondered why they couldn't reason with a foe that only left carnage in his wake, and silence, and more blue eyes promising to take everyone else down with them.

Knowing the truth is worse. Knowing what drives this enemy, and knowing how they are still implacable, still unable to see reason...

Jon misses the silence, and only having to worry about sticking his sword through a foe that shouldn't be this close.

"It takes time for memory to return. But you are lucky. The North is our blood, and the Starks do not share the same curse as my fellows. The North remembers. And while the trauma of death sometimes eases the fear that preceded it, they should recall their lives with time."

Perhaps this is the Night King trying to be reassuring, and maybe the expression on his face is a smile, Jon isn't sure, but all it does is fill him with revulsion, makes him want to have the ground swallow him whole, wants to light himself upon a pyre just so this monster couldn't claim him, just to feel nothing at all. Annihilation would be kinder than watching everyone be stuck in a half-life, half-dead, neither living nor allowed to rest.

But worse than that... Worse is the pull he can still feel to this creature. It was too close for comfort, too claustrophobic, and that, combined with the constant aching void in his chest where the scars still haven't faded because they never will...

Being alive hurts. Being alive like this has always felt like a bleary, dreamless half-sleep, like Jon is a hollow half-shell of a man with only the vague scooping memory of who he used to be. It's like part of himself burned away before he came back, burned away and would never be recovered, and to account for that aching loss and emptiness, the cold seems to fill something up inside him- and that, more than anything, is what terrifies him.

How he can feel drawn to such a monster, feel connected to this creature that had no right to his life or anything else, when it stood for everything he ever fought against?

\--

The resurrected Starks do not move from the Weirwoods, and Jon's siblings and the others witness to the ritual are told they can go inside now, if they wish to rest.

They do not need to be told twice.

On their way back, Arya and Sansa and Bran all pause, all crane their necks, because Jon hasn't started back with them. The Night King has clutched his arm, not allowing him to step away. They hesitate, waiting, uncertain, not wanting to stay but not wanting to leave their brother alone with only the dead echoes of people they loved and this ancient thing for company.

The Night King doesn't say anything to dismiss them or not, but Jon can see the flat patience in his eyes, the expectation that no matter what, he wouldn't stop whatever he was planning with company or otherwise, and without hesitation, Jon tells them to go on without him.

Whatever he wants to discuss alone, whatever he's planning, Jon doesn't want them to see.

They deserve to be shielded from this, even if Jon isn't sure what this is, even if Jon isn't completely sure what the Night King wants, even if he's just dragging him along to talk about plans for what will happen, about the supposed options in front of them that aren't quite choices at all.

But just because Jon doesn't know what will happen doesn't mean he doesn't feel like they're witnessing something dangerous, something they deserve to be protected from, because Jon has failed to protect them or shield them from other horrors, and if he can spare them this, he will.

\--

They mostly just walk. The Night King walks the expanse of Winterfell, hauling Jon along, talking as if everything he's done hasn't upended everything Jon's ever known.

Like they are friends.

And when they reach the edge of Winterfell, past it's walls, looking North instead of South, the Night King stops, and faces him, gets too close too fast with all the inhuman grace he's carried himself with from day one.

"It's a shame you let your friends burn." The Night King muses, and the small contact he gives John's collarbone makes him shudder. "I do not have much use for them, but I know they meant something to you. Particularly the red haired one, I saw how fond you and your wildling friend were of her. I could have brought her back, too. We take care of our own, even if you don't yet see it."

Jon looks at him, white faced, all the blood going cold in his veins, and despite wishing all the ones he loved came back, he's grateful, horribly grateful, that they wouldn't have to live through this.

 --

When Jon tries to sleep that night, he still can't. It's the same routine as it's been ever since he came back with half-shallow breathing, the memory of life not leaving him even if he can't really taste the air or feel much relief from it filling his lungs.

Like most nights, he just lays there, eyes open, unable to close them.

His body has become almost alien to him, and maybe it's because already so used to being dead. He still can't taste- everything is just dirt, even if Jon picked at his food to keep the veneer going.

Even though Jon can't even hear his own heart beating anymore- it does, slow and sluggish and faint, but not like it used to. No more thudding in his ears. No more warmth surging through his fingertips. He's grateful he can still feel the softness of Ghost's fur, or the warmth of Sansa when she held his hand, or the thudding contact of when Tormund clasps his shoulder, or the tight grip of Arya when she crushes his ribs when she barreled head first into him. Those details, at least, hadn't been stolen from him.

He hasn't told anyone else about it. Maybe Arya suspects, or Sam, or Tormund, when he used to crush him in a hug to hide the worry he'd otherwise keep close to his chest...

But in some ways, this half-life and insomnia is a mercy.

For unlike other nights, where he might try to sleep and almost succeed in dozing (like his body remembered life and not that it was dead), even when more often than not, it's like his body is already offline, but tonight of all nights, Jon is glad he is alert and on edge.

He may not be able to stop this nightmare, and he may not be able to rest, but with the Night King walking around, with all the contact he's made, with that fact that Jon is keenly aware of how vacant his room is and the threat that that might not hold true forever...

It feels safer, somehow, not to sleep, to keep vigil. To say all the old night watch vows in his head, even when they are little comfort, even when his watch has long since ended and the weight on his shoulder's still feels heavy to bear (for that, out of all the things of being alive, has not changed), but no matter what, he is one guard against the Long Night, against all the threats to humanity that he has so far failed to stop.

_I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

But as much as the words are empty, the familiarity of it all and the rote mindlessness keeps him from spiraling.

He must witness this endless night and somehow find a way to recall the sun, even if only in his mind.

Because Jon knows, if he closes his eyes, if he lets himself fall, that he might not be alone when he wakes up.

The thought still makes him run cold, and he still tries to ignore the knowing look Sansa had given him before they'd become separated, a look like she knew the same fears that Jon was wrestling because she had lived them already and did not want Jon to know them, too.

But even with the numb feeling of pins and needles sometimes prickling through his stiff limbs, Jon can still the warm tiny flame of life and memory burning in his chest. Sometimes, he can almost remember it crawling down his throat as it drew himself back from nothing, only for the warmth to burn hotter and hotter until it turned to sharp, agonizing pain, like his body knew it wasn't supposed to be walking and his mind wasn't supposed to be awake.

But Jon can't choose the other option. He wants to choose life. He needs to protect everyone, his family and the ones he loves most of all. And as for himself... He wants to take all the choices that were stolen from him, and drag them back into his hands, free to shape his freedom into a pale dream of the future. Of no more death, and no more fighting. To be free to wander and to love and to exist without any mantle on his shoulders. Once, Jon had dreamed a distant hope of ruling, of being someone who mattered, and that dream had all but turned to dust, if not when he was resurrected then when he saw what kind of rulers paved the way, and when he saw what those who chose their own destiny wanted for him, to use him for, when all Jon wanted was for people to be safe, and not to have to look out for people who deserved someone smarter and more capable and better than him. But more than that, Jon wants to rest. Jon matters to the ones he loves, just as much as they matter to him, and selfishly, Jon wants to hold on to that and not pretend that they are dangling off a precipice that could send them all toppling like an avalanche takes to the mountain peaks.

This place was supposed to be safe, to be a home, to be the Stark's and the heart of the North and no one else's. But it still hasn't shaken all the invasions that threatened to steal it away, and more than that, now the Night King and his court have the audacity to act as if they are gifting the North back to them, when it had already been saved. Winterfell being taken by the alien Others and their dead thralls was a violation, always would be, just like all the other horrors this place has seen too often ever since his true father went South and didn't come back.

Jon can't let this place become an empty husk of what it used to be. He can't let it's vigor and joy and memory die, can't let it become hollowed out and frail as he knows he is on the inside.

But more than any of all those things, it's the fact that every second he has spent in the company of this King of Night, of this creature of ice and horror that has haunted his nightmares for so long, is that just being near him eases that pain of the fire and the memory of what has hollowed Jon out, smooths it over as if it's just a bad dream that will pass, as if the creak of his limbs and the ragged, unhealed edges of his scars don't feel like fire constantly ripping him open, smothered by the frost and snow.

And Jon knows the Night King knows his mind, has felt and cataloged this unbearable feeling, too, has eyed him, seen the truth flicker over his face to behold that incongruous peace that had no right to be there, and that, more than anything, makes everything far, far worse.

\--

When Jon can't recite the Night's Watch litany any longer without it becoming garbled nonsense syllables, slurring his whispers, Jon tries to picture Ygritte's face, and the way she held her hands up to the sky and flashed her crooked smile, and tries to remember what her laugh sounded like, mixed with the teasing lilt of her not-so-sharp jibes. It always rang out, free, unrestrained, honest, so much you could feel it vibrate in your bones just from the pure joy in it. And Jon hopes she knows he's thinking of her, that she's helping him hold on to some kind of sanity he's not sure he has left.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ She was right. He did know nothing. He knew even less than he ever thought possible.

And then he can't think of her anymore, can't think of the weight of her in his arms as she bled, soaking everything in a sticky red heat as he held her close to his chest, slack face and unseeing eyes staring at nothing until he closed them for her.

And then he doesn't let the chill thought trickle down his spine of blue, blue eyes opening and staring back at him as she climbs upwards instead of being dead weight.

Finally, Jon mourns, cries like he hasn't been able to ever since he breathed new life, borrowed life, cries like he's forgotten how, for every injustice he's failed to right. And he cries for her, and everyone, every nameless casualty in this war, every close familiar face he's seen dead on a pyre, everyone he's ever seen rise back up with blue eyes and empty gazes, and then for himself and for all the failures he'd tried his best to stop, only his best was never enough.

And while he's glad to have witnessed his family reunited again, to be there for them, to help free them before Winterfell was taken yet again, before everything all fell apart, and even if it's traitorous that he's glad they are all together again now, broken as they are, and that gratitude, more than anything, breaks him, because he's betrayed the cause most of all.

Some part of Jon knows he should have died and stayed dead, shouldn't have lived to see this if it wouldn't save anyone at all, and Sam should've let him burn.

\--

Jon doesn't manage to stay awake. Another failure to add to the list, although, perversely, he's still grateful there's a sign of life to prove he's not quite too far gone.

When he does rouse himself (he's not sure how, not sure when, there's no marker for time to shift, no day to shine in or sound of birds, only the howl of the wind), Ghost is curled up next to him, watchful red eyes glancing at him then staring back at the door. He isn't growling on his haunches, nor does his fur stand up in warning, so Jon knows his siblings are safe and not in danger, and likewise, he has time and space before he has to suffer more unwanted company from the one king that did not want him to bow in submission, but instead only wanted for Jon to accept what he thought was a kindness.

When Jon finally rises and goes to wash his face, goes to pretend at routine, the mirror of his own haggard exhaustion stares back at him, and there's an icy handprint on the side of his neck, under his chin, like cold hands had cupped his jaw and combed some of the hair out of Jon's face.

Jon hunches and shivers, and keeps trying to ignore the claustrophobic nausea as he finds whatever furred cloak will best hide the unasked for contact from everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark and Weirwoods and wights, oh my.
> 
> seriously though if you have a zombie war and don't dramatically have your entire dead cast get resurrected for drama and pain when the living have to fight them or confront them what was the point???????
> 
> also Jon has hella survivor's guilt


	11. Bury A Friend (segments)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't sleep so have more segments.
> 
> Arya and the NK.
> 
> Roughly chapter 9 ish. Chapter title a song by Billie Eilish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway to quote the song:
> 
> "For the debt I owe, gotta sell my soul  
> 'Cause I can't say no, no, I can't say no  
> Then my limbs all froze and my eyes won't close  
> And I can't say no, I can't say no"

"You are not No One. You are Arya Stark. But you wear our faces."

\--

"Empires rise and fall. And you know who suffers? The everyday people. These are the ones you grant liberation."

\--

"When Valyria died, do you know what changed? Absolutely nothing. Men carried out their same fragile, short-sighted schemes, clamoring over one another like crabs in a bucket, too dim too realize they were readying themselves for slaughter. But I do not grant an end. I grant a beginning."

\--

"Did you think that just because we couldn't cross the wall that we didn't have a way to influence the world? We are wargs and seers made into Old Gods, and you of our blood. We can hear your every prayer, every whisper and every hope your family ever asked of this place. And we heard all the other whispers too, before the weirwoods burned."

 

"We may have been fenced in for a time, but we were there before the Wall, and we are still here after."

\--

"The House of Black and White is a place of Death and darkness, a place to ease the terror. Did you think we didn't see?"

\--

"Valar Morghulis." Arya snarls.

"Valar Dohaeris." The Night King corrects, didactic and dry. "All men must serve, No Man or otherwise. Why do you think that is? Because Rhyllor made them his. And then we broke them free. That is why you have been sworn to the cause whether you chose to be faceless or chose to be a Stark- either way, it is our legacy to protect the freedoms of those who would be bound in servitude forever."

Arya tries to find an opening, but the Night King grabs her blade again, not even paying notice to  blue not-quite-blood dripping from his palms before it freezes and coalesces over, self-healing and cold enough for frost to meld Arya's hand to her dagger.

"I see little difference between you and the flames." Arya spits.

The Night King raises an eyebrow, and does not betray any emotion otherwise. "If my plan succeeds, then you will never see Rhyllor up close to decide an apt comparison."

That throws her.

"What?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya should still get to stab the NK.
> 
> But hear me out- what if it didn't work?
> 
> Besides, then we can get everyone trying to kill the NK. Like, Team Effort.
> 
> Also even if I have the NK playing the game of thrones, he's still planning on freezing everything, so we get to have our environmental metaphorical cake and eat it, too, with the added political shenanigans.
> 
> Anyway, speaking of cake, I'm gonna go eat and then finally post chapter 2. I give everyone full permission to yell at me if it's not posted (even partially) by tonight. The stuff I build up in my head I tend to be perfectionist about and then procrastinate on, and it's a horrible habit when attempting to write intense and detailed longfic.


	12. Fungal Funk (segments)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and the NK and the Three Eyed Raven, and what controlling history really means. Chapter title from Crypt of the Necrodancer again.
> 
> For the sake of changed lore so I can combine some things, Valyria is as old as the First Men, and there is massive infodumping I'm gonna fix but for now, I'm keeping it where it is.
> 
> Also, more parallels because one theme is history repeating itself! also I'm probably gonna write these as real time warging flashbacks to make it less info-dumping at some point, or to explain NK's mental break where he decides annihilation = kinder than letting man destroy itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, weirwoods. Also, the Hound talking to Arya and Sansa about the NK because he is so 100% done with the political zombie rave utopia NK's trying to sell. Also, more lore that I might throw somewhere in another chapter but it's going here for now.
> 
> Oh, and as for language, I know GOT's all about foul language and crass humor and excessively bad relationships, and while it will be present, I'm not gonna be going as far or as frequent as the source material. The Hound and Tormund will have a relatively fouler mouth than everybody else, but I don't really feel like I need that to sell what I'm trying to do here... But keep in mind the language used in GOT will be around, albeit I'm trying for sparingly.
> 
> Also, while this does not apply to this chapter, GOT's way of dealing with noncon trauma is abysmal and if we're dealing with that, I'm going to basically be letting the people actually victimized be the focal point with their resilience, and not have it be gratuitous torture porn without dealing with aftercare and support and the personal hurdles the characters have to deal with, any story with that kind of content treats that kind of stuff way too lightly and flippantly imo.
> 
> But fyi the noncon tags are there for a reason beyond just canon. So if people need to avoid that/need me to isolate explicit stuff, I have no problem summing up plot-relevant details in summaries in chapters without that content so ppl can skip that wholesale. (Also, I probably will tag noncon, I just didn't want to promise tagging this time because I'm so sleepy when I update that I didn't want ppl being caught off guard).
> 
> also, warging is skinchanging, yes I know that's a show thing and not the book thing but skinchanging is actually a big deal in some actual rl religions so I'm just keeping it as warging.

"You could not see the truth. You were drowning in what he wanted you to see, in years and years of history beyond the snatches you could glimpse. It is not your fault you did not see. That was the Raven's design."

\--

"There were four of us in the beginning, those who you would know as the forebears of the Ironborn, the Wildlings, the Targaryens, and the Starks. We were not always enemies. But as all men do, we fell to war, fell into the cruel trap of man where power corrupted three of us, and the ones it didn't, left the innocent slain and broken, before I was reborn into not a man but something more."

"When I was a young boy, born in the North, I had two half-brothers, one older and one younger than I. There came a day when the youngest was lost under the care of the eldest. When we went to find and retrieve him, we met a king of a distant land. He had rescued our brother from those who sought to bring him south, to sell him. After a time, we parted ways, only to be reunited when I saved the king from those who sought to break his ships along the coast. We four thought it too much of a coincidence to meet the same path, so far from home, and we decided to explore that which had not been seen. We saw the world and fought together, bound in all but blood. Until one day, a creature of the deep told us a secret- that we were destined to change this place, to force the Gods to hear the prayers of the people and rise from their slumber beneath the earth. The King took us back south, to his home, to honor our birthright and to keep us close, claiming the North had no need for kings, so we should go where we belonged, with him. We lived in that city for years, the four of us. Then my younger brother wished to keep searching for the secrets of the world, and sailed his ships, fishing and trading, while elder brother wished to learn new secrets, having seen enough of Valyria's, and carved out his own territory back east. Years after they left, I planned to return North- it was my home, and I missed it. But the King and I were close, and he begged me to stay. So I did. We were happy, for a time. But when I grew restless, when I could stay no longer, the King took me back home, visiting half the year with his ships. For a time, all that mattered was keeping the Children of the Forest from trying to wipe us out, to destroy the homes we had made in the forests and ice, and the King supported us, gifted us whatever weapons we could need."

"But all power corrupts, and the King ruled Valyria with an iron fist. I didn't see who he was, not at first. Only when my younger brother returned south, he told me that there were new horrors there. That he couldn't leave the people in the state they were in. He said I should seek out the things North of us, the old magic, and wished for my aid to smuggle the children of Valyria to freedom."

The Night King hesitates.

"I went back to Valyria instead. I didn't believe him. I thought I knew what kind of man the King was. I thought he knew not the ways he was exploiting his subjects, that he was so consumed by the responsibilities and freedom of his position that he did not know what happened on the ground. But when he laughed at me, laughed at the idea that these people were not below him, when I saw him have men and women and children slaughter each other for sport, and had the gall to ask me to stay, I saw what a monster he'd become, and I promised to help my younger brother any way he could. My brother tried to break the shackles and halt the torments he paid his subjects, while the Rhyllor kept up new experiments to stave off death and rule eternal, trying to take the Gods of his land and break them to make a new one in his own image. My other brother was not much better, claiming neutrality, that it was not our place to challenge a king of another nation, that we should tend to our own, fight the wars on our doorstep. But when Rhyllor caught our younger brother arming his slaves, smuggling them out, and crying for rebellion, and sought to imprison him, we agreed that we could not allow it. The eldest tried to talk to Rhyllor, to say we'd take the youngest home, keep him far from his shores. Rhyllor promised to keep us all with him, instead, promised to burn us if we turned against him and betrayed his love for us. We rescued our younger sibling, fled, and brought him back North. Fighting a war on two fronts, against the Children and Rhyllor's invading forces."

"Rhyllor promised to follow us to the edges of the earth. To mark and own every inch of the world, so we could not flee, so we would see the consequences of abandoning him. After a time, I knew we could not continue on as we were. We were outnumbered. And while I fought the southern invasion, I learned of something far worse. Our elder brother had grown recluse, determined to find a solution to end the war, to carve out a new path. But he had another purpose- to claim immortality for himself, and build a world of his own, just like Rhyllor, convinced there could only be one true king. So when my younger brother learned of his experiments, had run to escape to the beach- by the time I returned and confronted my elder brother, he had drowned the other. All to bury the act and trade one life for another, lost to his own ambitions. I do not know if my brother had goaded Rhyllor's madness, had used his cruelties for his own purpose, or if he had been swayed by the other. And by the time I realized the betrayal, by the time my brother's sons hastened to my side to tell their tale, it was too late. My little brother was dead, and my elder brother was claiming to be a new King, one deathless and greater than all the others, rallying the people of the our lands and others to his cause, with Rhyllor's war right on my doorstep."

"I could not break their power on my own. I was a warg, but not as strong. I was only a man, a lesser seer than my brother. Not a conqueror. So I made a deal. I promised the Children of the Forest I would stop the fighting, grant them peace. But I was going to need to cross their lands and beg the Old Gods, the Cold Ones who demanded sacrifices and whispers across wood and stream and stone, all for the power to fight the new God in Valyria and the false one rising the green world. They saw the damage my brother and the King were doing, the fallout of the world of man, destructive to any and all in its path. They let me pass. I crossed the ice of eternal winter, to find the first Weirwood, to trade my life for the cause. I sacrificed my soul on the alter, praying to the God of No Faces, the one my little brother told stories of down south, the very ones we knew from the days when we were children, not men crushed by the weight of our own arrogance and war, to mold me to my purpose, to grant me power to protect the fragile world of man from Gods who would devour it. I was hungry and desperate and afraid. Winter's soul was not."

"The Cold in the Darkness, the Great Other, it does not speak. It does not dream. It is empty. It is pure. It erases all terror, all uncertainty. And combined with my will, my purpose, and in contest with the powers of the South, to fight the Gods born of its void darkness and seeking to devour it in flame, and it breathed new soul without life through my bones. When I awoke, I was no longer a child of man, but of Winter. I did not rest. I did not dream. I did not hesitate. And I took my newfound strength, took my ability to raise my enemies and all those unfortunate souls broken by a war that should've never been, and marched with them home. I took the North back, and then the south. My brother fled, and Rhyllor went back to Valyria and built up his power to counter mine. We warred for centuries. And I almost broke him- but before I could, he destroyed himself with his own power, glutted on his own fires that stoked the forge of his strength, defeated until he found a way to be reborn from the ashes. And there was peace, for a time. Man and the Children of the Forest coexisted for a short while, for only a blink of an eye in the memory of the world, until each side betrayed the other and the fighting started up again. But by then, I realized, the only way to keep man truly safe was to break all wars, to end all hunger, to stop all will to fight. To exist, and to only be, so that no fighting for resources could even risk their frail lives against forces beyond themselves. And to end war, I must fight one. The last war to break all wars..."

"Only my little brother's children, and their children, and their kin, they grew afraid. They could not understand. How could they? They were still men. So afraid, as all men are. Bran the Builder was no different, afraid of change, afraid of death like all man is, unable to see beyond and ascend to what he could've become. He sought to lock us behind the Wall, and he succeeded, sealing me beyond the Wall, fencing us in. But we knew, one day, our powers would grow, because Rhyllor's blood and mine are tied together. When he stirs, I rise to meet him, and wipe the remnants of his plague and memory from the earth."

"While I disagreed with Bran's position, I took my time in exile to consider the welfare of my family and the ways of man I had cast off. I accepted their sacrifices, accepted that this war could wait, so long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, in a king in the North to keep out as dominion from outsiders, and so long as those of Rhyllor's bloodline did not stir and wake the flames."

"And for a time, I sought a new solution. I took the offerings to the Weirwood and the Great Other as his champion. People would give me their children, and I would spare them, and keep them as my own, because the Weirwood gave them back to me. But I was still flawed. Imperfect. I thought I could rebuild man and make them in the image of Winter. Grant man new life as something other than himself, let the Void speak inside their bones and break their last fear forever. I was selfish. I was lonely. I was not thinking as a emissary of peace but with the weak memory of the mere man I once was, forced to watch the doom of my own hubris condemning others to my fate. Only those of my blood kept their will, and sometimes even that failed. And as for the children I could allow to ascend, to give life with soul and memory and will without death, they could hardly speak, their throats frozen and unable to grow. They grew tall and strong and unbreakable of ice that would never melt, preserved and eternal, but always children on the inside, except for when the Void would look out from them and work its will, granting a mercy I could not. And that made my purpose clear, removed all doubt, and I promised myself that when the Wall fell, I'd give my kin the choice: to live as one of us, or to give them the mercy of true freedom. A world without regret, or pain, or service to a force beyond them. No one would ever be subject to the will of another God or Man. They would be free. And those who chose my path would be watchers in the darkness, in the eternal winter, to watch the world rest and dream, and live in peace. When our people were broken and the King in the North bent the knee, I knew it would not be long before my solitude would be broken, and while I had some measure of foresight, I grew impatient. I could whisper, could reason with the other children who came after. The ones who felt the cold and dark and did not fear it. The ones who tried to breach the wall. But if those men did not become one of us, those men were slain or broken, and all I could do is protect their memory from those who would use it for their own gain. And I waited, and kept waiting for the day I saw you and your brothers and sisters in the Weirwood. A day when dragons woke from Valyria's ashes and the blood of it's children. And I knew, when the fire awoke, so shall my own power. All I had to do was wait, to end the war as it should have ended all those years ago. Only then our family would be safe, and our people truly free."

"When we marched south, I vowed a war of silence, a war of memory, so our people would remember the true power in the North, and what it will grant all the free men of the world, if they only face their terror and move beyond it's grasp. I tried to be kind- it is hard, to remember kindness, when you do not live as man any longer. But I tried to let people see their children before they died. Tried to let them die quickly. My creations are imperfect- my will, my struggle, my purpose weighs to heavy for it not to infect them, too- and they hunger with a hunger that is not theirs, but mine, my own flawed exertion over their existence, and that makes it difficult. There will always be fear when man faces an end. But that end doesn't have to be the end. And when I end this war to break all wars, I will not need to lead them. They will be free. They will be safe. And my own failures, my own lack of void, will not haunt them."

"But while I waited, my older brother, he still lived, and lay trapped behind the Wall as I was. The Three Eyed Raven was my brother no more, but a creature strewn across the wind, a creature of seed and bark and many eyes. He poisoned our trees, weaved his way into the earth, called to the lightning and the storms so our cold would not wake from the frozen deeps. He allied with the Children against all of mankind, all of the free men I had sworn to protect. He planted his roots, spun his stories to the green children. And he gave them the gift of his plague. He turned the Night's Watch, and the Starks, and my own late brother's kin against me, all his ravens and his storms to break the deathless night under the deep, in the ice and the sea and the sunless places of the world. When Rhyllor and I fought, before I became this, he thought he could play both sides. He'd warg from one host to the next, pretending to support me against Valyria, to topple the false King from his tyranny over all those I sought to free, all while he planned to betray us both and become a greater scourge upon the earth than Rhyllor had ever been. When I discovered his first betrayal, Three Eyed Raven stole my little brother's skin, a malign parasite hopping from vessel to vessel who only wished to control the flow of history, to rule as a new God over the land. He gave the Rhoynar their plague to fight Valyria's children, and tried to use our holy places to grow and whisper in the ears of man. We do not presume such arrogance, and sought to break his hold over our sacred places, over the order that would truly free man from it's shackles. And when my children and I saw him draw you North, draw you farther from the relative safety of Winterfell, all to find a new host to rebirth his ailing body, we searched, until you came to us. Sought us out. Only by the time we found you, my brother had already had you in his grasp, and sought to cloud your mind with his own soul, to shackle you to a new slavery and condemn you to oblivion without the freedom death will yield. I tried to mark you with my own power, to bring you back to us, to keep my brother from taking root- but it was too late. He'd already found purchase in your mind. And I knew I had to free you from his influence, and break him once and for all."

\--

 

"The fucking cunt can take his undead army and march them right back up to the frozen waste they hailed from for all I care."

 Sandor brandishes his children leg in the air, and then rips another hunk off.

"See this chicken? Do you think we can enjoy it when we're dead? I don't fucking think so. World peace through a hive mind of dead fucks, my ass. He's a crazy fucking king as much as the rest of them."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also alternately the interactions with everyone and the NK can be summed up as this meme:
> 
> "Carl, that kills people! What is wrong with you?" 
> 
> "Well, I kill people and I eat hands, that's two things..."
> 
> Then he's all like, seriously though, protip, have you considered: killing people is a blessing, I'm giving you world peace, plus all you living folks have freaking anxiety. If you think about it, being alive is the problem here.
> 
> anyway the reason Sandor is alive and not dead is purely thanks to the NK being like, "Okay, Jon Snow, I get that you and the rest of our living relatives all want ppl alive, which isn't on the agenda, but I guess I can let the people you love/consider close live for now if it ensures your good behavior and because frankly that one annoys me, and that one is basically gonna marry your sister which means potential more starks, which I am cool with."
> 
>  
> 
> also, if anyone is wondering why the NK isn't bringing up Nissa Nissa and Azor Ahai and the last hero from the first Long Night, that's also gonna be expanded on later
> 
> anyway since I have a feeling I didn't write my own changed take on the literal stories of the Age of Heroes very clearly in this format, here's a cheat sheet:
> 
> Rhyllor- ruler of Valyria, wants to ascend to godhood, Targ ancestor  
> Three Eyed Raven - immortality and mega-seer and all around body-hopping jerk, also the God of Storms in emnity with the Drowned God  
> Night King- willing vessel for the Great Other/Many Faced God, and kind of a stand-in Dad for all the Others who came after him  
> Little Brother- forebear of the Starks, Wildlings, and Ironborn before he died, then first drowned man that I haven't decided if the Night King first brought back via the power of the Great Other and the Drowned God, or if the three eyed raven or Rhyllor did which led to the Night King facing his brother and his dead kin as a zombie and then the NK turned him to his side and made him into the first undead Drowned Man.
> 
> also I'm working with Skagos and Iron Islands being distantly connected somehow through this, along with the Krakens in broken ruins of Valyria
> 
> anyway hope the lore was clear and the reason NK was also fixated on Bran (and will be on Arya with his connection to the House of Black and White, which isn't explained yet) makes sense
> 
> and the reason the brothers and Valyria's king aren't named is because I'm still figuring out what I should name them because I'm sick of everyone sharing the same name, I don't care that it's a nod to historical cyclical stuff and genealogies, from a story standpoint it's confusing and I have to juggle way too many Same Names in my SPN Stranger Things TUA crossovers.
> 
> also for the sake of the changed lore, the Targ's Valyria is reborn city of Valyria from the ashes, not Old Valyria, until it imploded again from magic, corruption, and stone plague
> 
> oh, and if it's also not clear, NK's wights eat people and destroy as they do partially because of his own zealousness and his will to end all wars making them more destructive than they otherwise would be, and because the weirwoods and other powers in the North hunger for blood and sacrifice aside from children, but that's a separate plot point
> 
> so if anyone has ideas on how I can make this less messy and far clearer, please let me know
> 
> and the only other thing I think I didn't cover here is that they take children and want sacrifices to maintain the power of the Great Other and the North to combat the flame of Valyria, so NK gets a bit militant about people forgetting the old ways
> 
> also note to self- write the NK Sam interaction to explain why Sam wasn't murdered when he first encountered the wight armies, and write why the NK didn't retrieve Jon from the water after the dragon attack up north and why he let Dany and the others go
> 
> I know there was a Bloodraven 3er theory with him being Brynden Rivers but we're not going that route with this, heck you can say B. Rivers got possessed by original 3er if you like that for this fic


	13. Running With the Wolves (segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the Night King. (Also, Jon and Ygritte flashbacks and Arya flashbacks because I'm not entirely sure where on the chronology I want to put those, although I'm doing that later tonight). 
> 
> Chapter title a song by Aurora. 
> 
> Have a segment while I keep procrastinating on Stone Cold and keep writing parts of other chapters. Sorry about delays. Thankfully my need to set all my writing on fire has stopped, so yay!!!!

"You have no right to pray here." Sansa isn't sure what makes the words spill out, what makes her call on this creature of ice when Bran told her of its ties to the weirwood, how it was older even than their tree.

But this place was their place. It always had been.

And having the Godswood be used for more horrors, mocking all the living who had placed their hopes here, and using it to bring her brothers and her father back as some shell of who they used to be, after decimating the residents and adding it to the wight army outside...

It's too much.

"You gave up that right the moment you became a murderer." She persists.

The Night King gives her a curious, flat look, his expression as impassive as a glacier.

"You may be queen in the North, but you do not command me. And if you think me faithless... Blood stains your hands as well as mine. If you can pray here, so can I."

"I am not a murderer like you. I do not slaughter innocent people and call it mercy." Sansa argues, "You call us kin and butchered our people in our beds. What, pray tell, makes the blood on my hands comparable to yours?"

Sansa does not bow, does not tremble.

But inside, she is uneasy. There is still that guilt, that sense memory of all the mistakes she's made, however much it had been rooted in being foolish or naive. She may have suffered too many cruelties to name, but some part of her still wonders if she, too, deserved it, just as the monster staring back at her deserved whatever curse made him so.

Once, Sansa had prayed to the Seven like her mother.

She'd stopped praying to them after the Lannisters made their mark, instead finding solace in old Gods, of all that she had left of her families tradition and memory, the same North she'd once tried to run from and then kept from like a hapless bird in a cage.

And when she found herself home, and finally took back this place, reclaimed her heritage and family name that she'd unwittingly cast off and then been denied ownership...

It was still her family name that put them all in the path of the dead, and bound this creature to her brother.

And she knew that it was family that could be a deeper wound, a deeper poison, just as much as any stranger. Littlefinger and Lysa had both tried to use her, hurt her worse than any stranger, more familiar than Ramsay and Dontos and so many others seeing her as a trophy, as a notch in a crown, as a conquest or thing. Even Olenna... Even Margaery, as much as she'd loved her. They had all cast her aside to the rocks for their own gain- and Sansa did not see that here.

Sansa saw something worse. This creature understood something she hadn't wanted to know, and it didn't look through her even it when it tore the warmth from everyone else's veins and made Sansa watch as everyone she'd tried to protect turned into a shambling vessel to it's will.

None of her living enemies had seen what strength was bound in her heart and nurtured in her blood, forged by her father's faith and her mother's memory and the echo of her siblings when she'd thought she'd never lay eyes on them or hear their voices again. Rickon's hope, Arya's willingness to fight, Jon's unfailing resolve, Robb's sense of justice... Bran's love of stories, and the memory of him waking up again when they thought he never would.

All these things she'd remembered, trapped and in the solace of her escape. All these things she shrouded herself in, to keep her grief from overwhelming her when she thought she was alone.

Once, she had not even considered Jon a brother, aping her mother's follies and being a cruel child as much as children can be. She knew better now.

She had been a stupid child once.

She would not be a stupid child any longer. 

Losing everything had seen to that, and just as she thought they'd get back some remnant of what they had, it all came crashing down on their heads, no safety to be found north or south, east or west.

She had promised to protect Winterfell and her family, after failing to do that for so long...

"And yet, it is here you betrayed him, when you told a secret he asked you take to the grave." The Night King challenges.

Like he heard her every thought.

He probably did. He probably saw.

The words sound like a threat, like he might cut her down, but there's evaluation there.

He may hate all kings and queens, but she is still of his blood. And Sansa knows when she is being tested.

But she is done playing games made by men, games with unwinnable stakes meant for only their benefit.

Sansa levels her gaze to blue eyes, unflinching. Seer the Night King may be, but she can read his eyes, too, as well as he could read her.

She's seen many faces like his- and all of them were liars.

The only difference here is that the Night King saw her clearly, and didn't have any notions of a frail thing she was supposed to be. He saw Sansa, saw her every strength, heard her dreams, saw her struggles, spying on them beyond the wall in a way that makes her feel just as violated as every other thing she's suffered. And this monster still somehow had the gall to find her lacking, when it, more than anything, brought more shame and suffering to their doorstep, and didn't have the excuse of being young or stupid to compensate.

"I did what I did to protect the North, and him." She asserts.

"By breaking his trust. By profaning this place with your lies, casting off your oath-" The Night King's voice is a low growl.

"I did it to protect him!" Sansa interrupts, stepping closer as she adds, "Jon needed to see just what kind of person he was dealing with! Our family has trusted outsiders for too long. She would've stabbed him in the back whether he kept silent or not. All I did was give her a chance to prove me wrong- and she didn't. Jon saw her for what she was. That's what matters. And if you think you are any better..." Sansa doesn't need to defend herself to this creature, but somehow she's found herself on the defensive, anyway. That ends now."Then you are a liar, worse than me. You are just like all the kings you claim to fight, or every man whose ever sacked a city and called that glory. You may not die but you are still flawed, still cruel-"

"I do not claim otherwise." The Night King cuts in, heavy and eyes not on her. "You think I judge you harshly because you think I see you and see a child. I do not, Sansa Stark. My brothers live and died here, and I betrayed my blood as much as you. If you are going to be a better steward of the North than I was... Then you'd do well to remember it, and not carry my mistakes."

"I won't. I will not let my family fall again." She snarls, clenching her fists at her sides as she stands tall, chin gazing up into the Night King's face. "I will not let them suffer you."

He smiles at her, cold and remote. But for the truth she can see there, the bitter pride of seeing something and finding that which he likes...

Yet the light still does not meet his eyes. It never will, because something dark and horrible and dead lived there, something beyond reason or choice.

"You'll learn better, with time. But do what you must. Plead their case. If those of our blood wish to live a half-life, one of sacrifice and not of release, then they will answer to our laws- the old ones, before Bran the Builder grew too craven to do what must be done." Then he's bending down, eye to eye, and Sansa finds herself breathless with the cold as it drops around them. "This is why there is always a Stark in Winterfell, child. There may be no room for kings and queens in this new world, no need to elevate anyone above the rest. But we remain here, autonomous and free, because no one else has proven just enough to do what needs to be done. You take the mantle up well, even if you've proven more fish than wolf before. But you know better, now. And I promise... When you have seen as much as I have... You'll see my solution as a mercy. Be grateful you have not seen more, child. You have already seen too much."

"I will never be like you." Sansa grits out. Her teeth chatter, and the wet warmth on her cheeks has long since frozen over. 

She does not bow. She does not bend. She will not break.

Never again.

The Night King straightens, eyes looking out beyond the tree, into the far North, where the endless night churns and more snow falls down, Sansa's hair flying in her face.

"If my will wins out, you'll never have to."

Sansa shivers.

The Night King bows his head and walks away, as if everything said here was just a formality.

As if he'd been waiting for the storm- only Sansa had brought it with her.

Something sour sits in Sansa's mouth, bitter as wormwood, and she thinks that stupid child might still be inside her, somewhere, deep down, and resists the urge to crush it along with everything she's failed to stop.

"You will weep for what we'll do to you, when we finally win." She whispers to herself.

Whether it's a curse, a prayer, or promise, she doesn't care.

Sansa had seen and been captive of men like him before, and would not let anyone suffer this one- least of all her brother.

Not without a fight.

\--


	14. The Wight to Remain (segment & spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Crypt of the Necrodancer.
> 
> This is roughly around chapter... 12 ish.
> 
> I'm writing 4 other chapters at the same time, gonna post 3 segments out of order and then finish and post the actual chapter two, aka S8E6 redone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Stoneheart does not like the Night King or the plans he has for her family, reanimated or otherwise.
> 
> Also, not featured in this part, but chapter 11... Let's just say Ned and Robb and Rickon are involved.

A woman in a grey cloak sits atop her horse, bloodied and thin-ribbed.

She holds her hand to her throat, thin rasping voice barely audible.

"You will not touch them." She vows, eyes of fire staring not at the blue ones unblinking back at her, but instead, at her children, the ones she loved, failed, and lost, the ones who survived her and their siblings and the ones who didn't.

And this woman who was once Catelyn Stark charges forward, hissing past wights and others and the court of the Night, the bloody sword no longer called Widow's Wail raised high above her head.

The Night King halts her blow, his own frozen sword ringing from the clash of metal and iron-forged dragon-glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zombie fight! zombie fight!
> 
> you have no idea how much I wanted to throw thriller in as a chapter title, but unfortunately that privilege belongs to ALPAS. Maybe monster mash can be a chapter instead


	15. Bad Romance (DONE 6-2-19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some NK/Jon dialogue that devolves into smut. Also some Tormund/Jon showed up. The only thing I might edit from here on out is pacing.
> 
> Chapter title a song by Lady Gaga.
> 
> TW: Dubcon veering on noncon thanks to Jon not having the presence of mind to be able to consent due to magical and undead connections and some soul stuff I haven't thrown in the mix yet, and also coercion because the NK is threatening Jon's loved ones and the entire world and keeping ppl hostage, also some slight dissociation and obvious power imbalances. also not sure if this counts as incredibly distant incest still, so depending on how you define that... yeah. Slow burn ain't so slow any longer.
> 
> anybody who doesn't like reading any kind of smut, lemme know and I'll give you the rundown of the plot-relevant stuff happening as a result

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also this should be self-explanatory from the tags but Jon is FTM in this and it is relevant to this scene in particular. 
> 
> That is not the main focal point of this story, although certain aspects of his transition as a kid and how it affected his relationships/self-perception, etc. will be explored.
> 
> but yeah, in case ppl didn't see the tag, trans people exist, if we can have dragons and magic and prophecies we can sure as hell have semi-magical transitions and discussions of queer folks in quasi-medieval magic worlds. 
> 
> for people who need me to spell out details, in this case, Jon has had actual surgical intervention and semi-magical healing for said surgery and to blend in to avoid harassment, so the medical equivalent is that he has had this universe's version of testosterone injections/gel and metoidioplasty, and everything else is still functional for him, plus his skein's gland acts like a prostate. maybe it's weird for an asexual trans person to write all those details particularly when my smut is probably subpar anyway, but goddamnit I can do what I want. my priority is more bodily comfort and lessening dissociation and alleviating Jon's dysphoria, and while non-bottom dysphoria is also completely valid, in this Jon feels comfortable and non-dysphoric post-surgery and has a fulfilling sex life (even if his taste in romantic partners means he needs to seek out healthier relationships but that's a separate issue).
> 
> If I had to deal with all of GOT's creepy/disgusting/weird stuff (also who the fuck calls a clit a mound??? seriously guys I'm still side-eyeing literally every single sex scene we've been subject to in the books, I've seen far better smut on here for free. why is proper sex edu not a thing, in a fantasy setting, where u can write what you want?), then I can write semi-wholesome sort of romantic dubcon... if that's a thing that can exist considering the iffy consent parameters and coercion, even if it wasn't intended as such by the initiating party b/c they don't see the power imbalance because the NK's a little unhinged. but he's attempting to be romantic, whatever, Jon's whole sex life has been iffy anyway, even with Ygritte thanks to the emotional stuff and theirs was the best canon romance imo.
> 
> (there is no issue of pregnancy and reproduction here partially because the transition process mostly causes sterility, plus that's also not the NK's goal, but more importantly because Jon is resurrected and while he isn't dead, no fertility is possible because of the bodily trauma involved in dying and coming back and what did shut down for him since he's still alive but on a different wavelength, being undead. so this is technically ice fae on pseudo vampire action)
> 
> (also on an nsfw and completely unrelated note, the reason eunuchs can't get their dicks back in this is precisely because they do not have the anatomy for the same procedure, and the other reason I mention this is because GOT has a weird fixation on dicks in general and I hate that general world-building consistency means I needed to unpack that other procedures haven't been invented/invested in sufficiently)
> 
> for people who get to the smut and go: well that escalated quickly
> 
> 1.) yes. yes it did and I'm not sorry, it's not like the Others in ASOIAF aren't described as ethereal and beautiful and I'm gonna make them seductive, goshdarnit. (speaking of which, their armor is like the book with some of the side armor on their hands being like the show, stylistic choice difference there)
> 
> Plus a self-righteous mass murdering stalker-y otherworldly immortal ice being thirsting after a mega angry but kind + just person who just wants to protect ppl and have a normal life but who keeps being forced to do things they don't want and they have some psychic/intense connection to the ice being after them is my flavor of evil angsty ship, what can I say
> 
> 2.) for the ppl going: wait if the NK doesn't like feeling emotions why the FUCK is he doing this, my answer is thus:
> 
> -he's a hypocrite and he knows it (but he also just can't resist the allure, and Jon feels a pull too so they're kinda fighting mutual chemistry but Jon still hates his guts for all the other shit he's pulled but also feels really sorry for how mentally not okay this dude is and feels pressured into a relationship to protect ppl and to buy time) 
> 
> -it's canon whoever holds the Night King title are down to fuck humans, so there is actually a cultural precedent here that I'm gonna unpack eventually once I figure out how I want to tie it to Nissa Nissa and Azor Ahai and the last hero and the other Night's King story from the Wall that isn't the "Night King" but a Night's Watch dude.
> 
> also Jon does not know Tormund likes him yet. he knows nothing.
> 
> in my book, writing sex that wasn't only there for the sake of sex is the goal, ergo my job is done... except for writing the rest of this fic

"They speak of Kings and Queens, but all a hierarchy has done is clouded the true freedom their kind deserves. I am giving them their freedom back. No other mortal may think themselves above the rest, or deny anyone what is theirs any longer."

"And yet you rule them, control them, make their will your own."

The Night King shakes his head.

"I only give them the strength to take what is theirs. To free everyone of the burden of life. And when we are done, I will find a way to sew them back together. Repair their minds. And if I do not... Forgetting is a kindness. They are already free. But for them to thrive, they must wipe all that came before. Only then will humanity be safe from itself."

Jon doesn't buy the logic, but doesn't push his arguments, yet. There is something else, though, that brings itself to his attention, something that makes him uneasy more than the casual slaughter, and that is the flicker of hypocrisy.

"And what of the birthright you spoke of with me? Is that not lording over others?"

"What is yours by birth is not relevant to the affairs of man. Our ties, our roots, go deeper than that. You are not mortal any longer. You can be slain, as can I, but you will not age. You can want, you can crave that which you lost, that which you remember, and yet you cannot drown. You need no air in your lungs, or water to parch your thirst, or to suffer that which makes all men so fragile. And I confess... I do not always understand the parts of you that burn, the parts of you that recall life, or the meaning of your grief. But that does not make you unlike us, even if the flames tried to steal you away. Nor does it mean I do not wish to understand you. I may have willingly cast off my humanity. Yet I was still a man once, and I find that when I am close to you, the very things I've sought to stamp out as my weakness still persist. Ignoring that will only lead to folly, to pretend that does not sway me. It is safer to know them, to bare them, and keep them under control, where they cannot wreak havoc and instill chaos where it cannot tread. You are dangerous- as dangerous to me as you thought I was to you, once, whatever you still might think of me." The Night King, so very solemn, sighs at the crinkle of Jon's brows, and laces his hands together. "And no matter what I feel... The truth remains: to live is to suffer, to feel pain. Humanity should not live thus. And you do not deserve to feel those things any longer. Yet I do not wish to rob you of your mind or memory, as you see them. But it would be cruel of me to ask that burden of anyone else, even while they cling to life because they do not know any better. It would be tyrannical and selfish, to presume to trap others to stave off my own loneliness, when I exist to serve all others who wish to be free."

Jon doesn't have an answer to that. He won't deny he's exhausted, and tired of pain, and tired of all the loss. And he can see just how much the Night King has done to pretend he does not feel it, either, and he can understand the madness that came upon him, if it's madness, for living so long and seeing so much would not make the world a kind place, or a welcoming one, particularly alone in the cold north with little company.

But he knows the truth- there was no bargaining with this. To choose for others was to deny them all that mattered, and this creature was too blind and too removed, or perhaps too controlling, to see it the same way. The Night King was too busy trying to protect people from themselves that he forgot to protect them from him, and saw it as a necessary evil, to save them from those just like him.

Knowing this, feeling the sickness of all that ate away at him, feeling all the things he wishes he didn't- that still makes Jon human. Such things make him remember the world when it was bright and full of true, real laughter (not the echo of what was) and you cannot have those, either, if you remove the ability to feel the bad along with the good.

He can't quite focus on that for too long, though.

The Night King is far too close to him. Touching him, looking at him as if he's the only thing in the world, and Jon wishes that he didn't feel tranquility falling over him from where the Night King's hand touches his bare chest, like his body wishes for the promised oblivion and loss of feeling that would numb Jon to everything else he's known.

The Night King's skin is soft, always has been in a way it has no right to be, and Jon finds he's always startled by it whenever the Night King makes contact. He looks hewn from stone and ice, a sculpture without flaws come alive.

"You are Jon Snow, because you belong to the North. You belong with us. And I think you know it, too."

Jon glares at him, brow furrowing.

"You care that I am a Targaryen and a Stark. If you are as equitable as you claim, then where I came from should not matter. I should be just as much a nobody as anyone else, and therefore nothing to you." He says through gritted teeth, contrary and sullen, maintaining this subject the only shield he has from hiding how much those words meant to him, how he feels them resonate down his bones.

"You would never be no one, facing us down in our homes. You were foretold, Jon Snow. Our Prince that was Promised. Your soul has visited us before it's rebirth, always bearing a light in the darkness. But that is not what binds you to the world of man. It doesn't change who you are- or where you belong." The Night King answers, always patient, maddeningly patient, and Jon finds he might want to hurt him for it until the feeling ebbs and he forces all the other feelings down. "Our home calls to you, I know you've felt it. When this is all over, when this war is done, you can remain with us and rest. For I may not be a man, yet you are not one, either: that does not mean we have to be alone. Our emotions are no crime if it causes no harm, and if you can find happiness with me.... I would like to see you smile, see you at peace, to know your burdens are truly over. We've waited a long time for the one who came to us in the Night, even if history has forgotten the truth. And your legacy, the blood in your veins, it cannot change your true name, the one you've always known, the one the Starks gave you, the one you keep for yourself."

"Yet I don't know yours." Jon wonders. It feels like a safer subject, moving on from less heavy things, tricking this creature into frivolous conversation and not debates over the fate of the world or eternity bound together.  Jon draws away slightly, to keep the gooseflesh and icy hands from straying farther than it already has, and to keep his head.

The Night King looks pensive, more than usual, like a shadow has fallen over his eyes, hiding some rising storm underneath.

"I have forgotten it." He says. Too clipped. Too calm.

A half-lie.

"Yet you claim to be family."

The challenge hangs there, and the Night King gives Jon what looks like an amused glance, although Jon isn't sure. His movements are slight, deliberate, always more shallow and less expressive than the living. It makes it hard to know what he feels, if he can feel true feelings at all. He keeps talking, though. He seems to like being listened to, to crave the company, despite all his attempts to destroy anyone breathing and their voice, otherwise.

"My brothers and their children may have betrayed me, and our blood may be bound through their legacy, binding our fates together so that you may live beyond your human confines... That is over and gone, now. It hardly matters, who I was before I became this. Became all I am."

"Then what should I call you?"

"What do you name me already?"

"We called you the Night King." Jon says haltingly, then looks down at his hands. "Like the old stories. We had no other names."

There's fingers entwined in his, intimate and presumptuous, leaning over him, and it reassures him anyway. They are cold, cold enough to burn another man and make them cry out, but it only jolts Jon's skin, makes it flicker with something electric, some want and some Jon pretends he doesn't feel, that he is as empty and vacant as the being next to him, or however much he claims to be.

The Night King smiles, and Jon can't tell if it is in mirth or pained and bitter from some memory that he pretends does not trouble him, because doubt makes him only a man, not a being of ice and snow.

"Yes... I think I like that. I am no king of man. Only a servant of eternal rest, a knight to witness the darkness and to bring winter home. It serves its purpose."

Jon suddenly can't stop a half-laugh from escaping his mouth, and the Night King looks at him, curious.

"Bit of a mouthful." Jon hums. He's not sure if it's hysteria barely held back any longer, or just the ridiculousness of this entire situation.

The Night King looks him up and down, so very slow. Almost tentative, yet not at all, and then he is too close, right on top of him, and gives Jon a wicked look, all narrow eyes and glinting teeth, like he is laughing, too.

"You'll manage. A pretty mouth like yours could sing so sweetly, if it tried."

Jon freezes in his seat.

The words don't quite make sense. This...

It's too fast. Too different. Too alien to what their interactions have been, even if the Night King had been far from shy about touching him. But he had also been so patient, patient enough that Jon still hated him for making him aware of the gaping hole that he can't quite fill, the pull between them, and kept tiptoeing around him, treating with a reverence that still made Jon viscerally uncomfortable. Acting like he was made of glass- at least up until now, when that patience has all but shattered into some starving emptiness that begs to be filled, and the disparity between the two pulls the rug out from beneath Jon's feet with him only knowing the falling intensity of not knowing which way was up anymore.

Jon sits hunched and huddled in on himself, unable to move even if he could muster the will.

That does not deter the Night King, who gives him a look that is too fond as he bends, one hand clutching Jon's chin, other hand cradling the back of Jon's head to keep him steady.

They stare at each other for a moment, Jon still off-balance, feeling like he's missed a step in a dance, or a rabbit in a trap, looking at something faster and stronger and hungry that was coming for him, a hunter that did not rest and did not tire and did not compromise, and above all took action, and did not hesitate when it came for its prey.

Jon finds he's shivering with more than just fear, or even anticipation, yet he can't quite flinch away.

The Night King gazes into Jon's eyes, and tilts slightly closer to the edges of his jaw.

He brushes their lips together, one hand wrapped around the hair on the nape of Jon's neck to better pull him closer.

The cold startles him, makes him open his mouth a little wider, and he remains frozen for a second, only to melt into the grip of the being that hugs him tight, every taut muscle relaxing in the grip of something stronger and steadier than him.

Jon is surprised at how hungrily he kisses back. And more than that, he's thrown by how very human this creature that isn't suddenly has become, how he can see beneath the murky depths of all the things this creature pretended it wasn't and tried to bury under the ice and snow, into the wide pupils of it's eyes and way it's clutching fingers hold him.

In the echoes, he feels and sees a man. Not a mask, but a person, like Ygritte or Tormund or the people he'd spot flirting and ribbing each other in passing, trapped beneath the ice unless Jon can melt it away, and more than that, Jon finds he can't keep his distance, drawn closer, a caress of frost prickling over his bare skin.

Through that longing, that suspension of this feeling Jon cannot quite name, he aches. He wants to unravel this being in front of him, wants to crack open his ribs and unbury the man who had long since given way to the monster, wants to dig him out from the avalanche and feel that thrum of peace and eternity that calls to him, a restful nothing that promised to still the fire crackling in his blood and hissing out from his lungs.

But Jon also finds he's furious, or something beyond that, something so hot and so encompassing every cell inside him wants to watch it all go up in flames. He's burning, not just with want, or need, or with an emptiness that scares him- but with fear. He's been afraid and trapped and waiting for the inevitable to pass, to face this creature and it's implacable will for so long, and yet he's still as much an animal as the rest of them, facing down an endless winter with no reprieve... Only the winter wants him back.

Jon knows what he's willing to sacrifice to win wars that were impossible. He killed Qhorin to infiltrate the Wildlings. He can suffer this, too, if it means he can end this war, this worse war without reprieve containing all the fears he's even known.

And Jon thinks of Sansa and Arya and Bran and how they had been chipping away at the walls, trying to dig their way out of Winterfell and flee with the living in this tomb. And Jon remembers how the dead sagged, and saw nothing, and went still whenever the Night King was caught by surprise, whenever he beheld the source of his fixation and obsession he'd pretended didn't exist, whenever he only had eyes for Jon...

_Yes, I can submit to this. I can give in, I can give up. I am a dead man already, and if I can fall so the others can live, I will. I will give them a chance to flee, to live, to escape and find a way to burn the night and return the summer, and if I fall with this monster than at least it will not break me. At least they can find their way to safety, wherever that may be._

And if not, they could prepare for a last stand, however much it might matter.

At least he could feel something before it all broke apart. Surrender would not lose the war. Only forgetting who they were, and why they fought, and who they're fighting for. And the only problem is the Night King thinks he's fighting for the same cause, too.

The Night King's expression softens, like he knows, has observed the silent war waging under his skin. But he does not suspect Jon's dissolution- or if he does, he doesn't care. Jon's resistance is a drop in the ocean to a creature such as himself, for all the ways he has waited out the storm to bring the ice to every shore. He is patient. He can wait.

Jon prays to the Old Gods for both forgiveness and something else, and wonders if _he_ hears, wonders if it matters, and then the Night King's hands are raking down his bare chest, tracing not only the scars of Jon's death and icing them over, but tracing the other scars, ones Jon gave himself to settle in his own skin and be seen for who he is, and Jon finds there is love there, too, even if his heart has already bled out and been broken open with no hope of repair.

Their next kiss is less restrained, probing and exploratory, but even with it's intensity, the Night King maintains the precise measure of his movements. When they part the Night King eyes Jon up and down like he's both incredibly fragile, yet still something he wants to devour, a tempest of ice and frost ready to swallow them in the eye of the storm.

Jon bites his lip, feels frostbite that isn't, feels the flush of his own cheeks and the slightly tighter feeling in his chest, like his heart suddenly remembered how to beat, and tries not to think about how he just want to be closer-

The Night King cups his face.

"I may not be a king of man, but I could rule over you. Would you want that, Snow?" He asks.

Slowly, he pries Jon's legs apart, thumbs sliding over the insides of Jon's thighs, face so placid it's as if they are discussing the weather, although that's a loaded subject, too, because the sun has been stolen and nothing is safe any longer and Jon is drowning in the waves breaking over him, unable to surface from this purgatory he's found himself trapped in.

Jon's tongue sits heavy in his mouth, struck dumb by the buzzing feeling of not quite knowing how to speak.

"Or would you want to be mine? To have me kneel at your feet, and sing your praises. To worship every inch of you."

The words are jagged, bitten off at the end, promises more than questions.

Jon's hands ball into fists, clutching the fabric on the bed like a lifeline.

The Night King kneels between his legs, tall enough to look Jon eye to eye even on his knees, having settled between them all too easily.

"Would you ask of me to submit, to let me take you, and let me carry you off to my home, the way we do beyond the Wall...?"

He brushes his lips over Jon's lips again, insistent, but still patient. Always patient, so much Jon wants to wrestle him into submission and make him bleed it will break that damn calm and make him human again, to make him understand how he's wrong, but also because Jon wants him, and if this seduction could not be avoided then he was going to make this King feel it as much as Jon was cursed to want him, too.

The Night King sees it in his eyes, and he rubs the fabric between Jon's legs, and traces another hand against Jon's chest, thumbing the sensitive skin there, and Jon's back arches, breath hitching even though he doesn't need it, but it's like his body has remembered it's own life and wants to yield to what was once known.

"Do you want me, as I want you?" He whispers.

All at once, the cold washes over Jon, too much all at once, and when Jon finds his composure there's something else eating him alive.

"Will it change me?" The words burst out too quickly, and Jon surprises himself with a fear he did not know he felt until now, all the old stories that were once only myth flooding his mind. He doesn't manage to finish his sentence, isn't sure he's making sense, but the Night King seems to understand and rubs soothing circles over the back of Jon's shoulder, still weaving a hand through Jon's tangled hair.

_Would I still be me, if I loved you, or will I become a creature of ice, too?_

The Night King pulls his head back, looking at Jon with an alien, intense frankness that speaks truth through sheer force of will.

"No." He answers. Then he taps Jon's chest, hand exploring his ribs and then settling at his heart. "The fire will keep yourself as it is, and even if I could grant you the gift I chose, I would not change you unless you willed it. Does that ease your mind?"

Jon nods, once, voice stolen again, every unneeded breath in his lungs feeling too shallow and sharp.

"Do what you will." He answers.

Only kisses Night King, initiating, and when they are done exploring the contours of each other, shaking and half-clothed, the Night King stands, strips himself of his cloak and armor and furs, and unbuckles his belt- but stops Jon from undoing his own.

"Not yet." He whispers.

He presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, fully unclothed, and Jon licks his lips, nails digging into his palms to try and ground himself as the Night King towers over him.

Jon knows the premise of what he's supposed to do, thanks to idle chatter from his time at the Wall and the people beyond it, even if this particular dance is a first for him- most are, since he's only ever been with one other person (and in the back of his mind, he hears an echo of Ygritte goading him, saying if he's going to give it up, might as well enjoy it, even if all he's ever done is be a pretty fuck while he pretends at just cause for tricking those he loves, but Jon pushes that down, the idea only the last resistance of an honor that's only ever crippled him- from winning, from keeping hold of actual solutions that might turn the tide). And with those silent thoughts Jon smooths over any last dredges of indecision. He's been too indecisive for too long, and neither impulse nor restraint has saved him or anyone he loves yet. Might as well stop fighting altogether, to just see where this takes him, and let himself take what he can and feel what he will before he drowns in the consequences.

Thankfully, the Night King has no problems being patient, guiding him where to go, moving his fingers to press Jon's own into his palm to better ready him, Jon's final misgivings being that he's three times his size and he's unsure he'll be able to take it all in.

Icy fingertips massage the back of Jon's head, holding Jon steady while the head of his cock brushes against the bottom edge of Jon's lips. 

Jon kisses it, licks the edges before taking it into his mouth, tongue still swirling in a circle to explore a sensation foreign to him but far from unpleasant. It tastes not like ice, but like a person- slightly sweet and metallic, only cleaner, as if he remains unstained by the decay of the world. And while he's cold, he isn't frozen, although Jon's mouth tingles from the contact, with the sensation of icy tendrils rooting around his his brain, making him lightheaded. He fills Jon's entire mouth, hard and full and pulsing where he presses against Jon's palate, Jon's previous concerns forgotten.

The Night King sets a slow and steady pace, pushing deeper with each thrust, until he slides one hand down Jon's ragged, unkempt strands of hair and clutches his chin to keep Jon at an angle. Jon's head bobs as the Night King rocks into him, too-white teeth gritted into the barest hint of a grin. 

The Night King hums, closing his eyes, balanced and composed even when he's not quite lost himself to pleasure.

In this quiet that is not silence, the Night King seems far from remote, like any other man with dreams and desires. Like he is alive, even if he's not breathing. He smells like skin and metal, blood and lightning, musk and pine, and Jon swallows everything but his pride, determined to thaw this winter and reveal the person underneath. Only a person could be swayed, after all, if there's any chance at victory- and only a man could love, could lie and claim it did not move him when it did.

When the Night King's eternal composure finally slips, and he starts to take too greedily, Jon gags once, and heaves in a few breaths. The Night King relents, demanding naught until Jon opens up and takes him back again.

This continues until Jon is gasping once more, and the Night King pulls back, half-bowing as he bends to kneel again. His hands slide down Jon's sides, tracing his legs, and he leaves frost with every kiss to Jon's chest and midriff, touch almost bruising where his fingers knead into the only fabric remaining between them.

There's a promise there, too, and Jon shudders, chest heaving as he tries to keep his head.

The Night King rips Jon's pants open with his hands, tugs them all the way down, past Jon's calves and over bare feet, which twinge at the glancing contact, before he pulls Jon closer to the edge of the bed and leans in, softly kissing the space between Jon's thighs and the bare skin in between. His icy crown scratches ever so slightly when it rustles through the crest of curled hair between Jon's legs, tickling slightly.

His tongue glides under the tip of Jon's stiff cock before he sucks it, and Jon whines and bucks into his mouth, breath hitching while the Night King eyes him appreciatively.

The Night King keeps kissing and sucking and pulling away to tease, until he dips his head lower and licks Jon's cunt, mouth pressing closer, head angled up, and one hand strokes Jon's cock while Jon's back arches, head thrown back with another cry when the Night King takes his cock back in his mouth and takes him from shaft to tip.

Ygritte had tried a lot of things like that, but even she hadn't had the practice or the knowledge to do the things _he_ did, and Jon finds his thoughts trailing off as his head grows fuzzy and mind rides the waves of icy pleasure as it surges up his spine.

When he's done dragging the noise from Jon's throat, done lapping up his warmth and the taste of him, the Night King guides them both down on the bed, pinning Jon's wrists at his sides while his calves wrap around the back of Jon's own. He grinds against him, engorged cock rubbing against Jon's while he whispers praise, Jon squirming and wrestling for more control until the Night King slides into the wet places Jon needs filled.

And Jon lets himself feel nothing but the feeling of being full, being complete and feeling nothing but electricity that crackles in his mouth, the ice shooting up his bones, and want that makes him steal another kiss from the one Jon dared to let claim him. He feels nothing but joy and purpose and raw, heavy need, because if he feels anything else the surrender will be seen through, will be noticed, and it will all come crumbling down around him, just like the Wall, and Jon finds he's too far gone now anyway.

Heedless, the Night King caresses Jon's shoulders, kisses his scars, cups his ass, traces the sensitive skin down his leg while he calls him king, says he wants to hear his voice, wants to see what happens when he finds he need fight no longer.

"Give yourself to me, boy. Let me steal all your troubles away."

Nestled in his arms, Jon traces the clear horns on his forehead shaped like a crown.

When the Night King presses him flush against his chest, Jon wraps his arms around his back and holds on for dear life while the Night King slides into him once more, slick and dense and hitting every single place that makes Jon gasp for a king, to beg for him to not let go.

\--

They take a break. More accurately, Jon takes a break, laid flat out on his back, arms splayed, while the Night King hovers over him, lounging on his elbows. Close enough to touch and just barely doing that, the head of his cock lazily stroking down the inside of Jon's leg while Jon regains his composure. Both had been conditioned for stamina and did not need rest, but sometimes Jon's mind and body did not sync up, did not recall that this faded memory of frail limits was not there to thwart him any longer.

All it meant was the Night King had to fix that, and make all those human synaptic interference, that memory, give way to animal instinct, pleasure without thought, only need, and to let Jon drift into this new eternity the flames had set alight inside him.

It is not a calm, contained, emotionless endeavor. But for once, the fondness he feels for this man does not feel like a crippling weakness. No, instead the Night King finds he misses those feelings, and all the sensations that follow, the distractions this man awakes in him.

If he can afford to be weak, it will be with one who was like him, who would persist for all eternity at his side, remembering what it was to be alive, with the Night King unspooling that nostalgic feeling from his lips and breathing it in from the flames he can feel stretching just below Jon's ribcage, flames he cannot let overtake him or eat too greedily, but cannot quench entirely, either, just as much a part of Jon as his will and human instincts remained.

They even each other out- the Night King allowing Jon's body to rest, to feel at peace, to merge with his restless soul, and Jon quickening something inside him that hasn't been alive save for the one feeling he's been able to feel: unwavering purpose. Unaltered, implacable, inescapable. Inevitable as the season.

While he watches Jon remember the things his body doesn't need, but knows it wants, he Night King knows he'll find a way to win him over outside of this clash of their carnal union, aided by their joint understanding of each other and the unyielding passion the Night King hadn't realized he'd missed.

This love, too, was inevitable.

And he buries his head in the crook of Jon's neck, smells ash and sweat and lingering smoke, the scent having permanently made its home Jon's locks of untamed hair, and thinks of all the waiting he has done to get here, all the patience he's cultivated so intently even when he knows how this will end.

Time heals all wounds, and aside from ending all war and setting humanity free, once, love had been the Night King's singular purpose in a life he'd thought he'd left behind.

Winning the prince that was promised to him was just as much a priority.

He'd lost him once already.

He was not going to lose him again.

\--

When he lays Jon out again, the Night King kisses his chest, sucks at the skin there leaving mottled bruises down Jon's neck and past his waist.

"Close your eyes." The Night King instructs.

Jon complies, limbs splayed and his hair spread out and tangled on the mattress, and he prepares Jon with tentative, slow touches and wet fingers that are cold enough to make Jon ache in a way that he doesn't seem to mind.

He stretches Jon out slowly, every glide experimental, and when he pushes two fingers in, his every twitch is as calm and slow as he was when they started... At least until Jon's breath hitches, and then all restraint breaks. The Night King finds the spot that makes Jon keen, sharp and ragged, the space inside him open and warm and inviting, and he presses against it, feels the way the walls of Jon's insides heave and give at just the right stroke, and then he's keeping an impossible, tireless pace, content to watch Jon unravel beneath him.

\--

When Jon shifts, and looks up, blinking, he can see the peripheral reflection of his flushed face and the blue tint of his own skin in the glossy armor discarded next to him, his face pressed into the bed, and a line of drool speckling the edge of his mouth while cold, curved fingers keep reaching inside of him. They go deeper, drawing another moan from Jon's half-gaping mouth and his flushed lips, and then Jon tries to gaze at the one doing this to him, tries to muster some kind of resistance and read his face, until he can't any longer and his eyes can't stay open and he whines and begs, one leg twitching while the other is bent into his chest, ankle held in the Night King's tight grip that will not be moved unless it is by some impossible mercy that Jon isn't sure he wants as he tries to spread his legs wider.

The Night King watches Jon lose himself, lets him carry on this way for a indeterminate time until he pulls out, Jon's body boneless and limp, and his panting mouth wide open.

Jon's heart, for once, beats faster, enough to sound muffled but present in his ears.

The Night King kisses him, tongue sliding in while one hand cradles the back of Jon's head.

When they part, he rolls Jon over on his stomach with no resistance.

He tugs Jon's hair, pulling upwards, and the Night King's full weight crushes Jon like an avalanche, holding Jon close while come trickles down his leg, cock teasing against his ass.

Jon mumbles something unintelligible, a small whisper, half-prayer and half something else.

The Night King nips at his ears and growls something in his mother tongue, the language of the north before it changed, and bears down.

When he fucks into him, it's too much, all precise glide and careful pressure that fills Jon up to the brim. Jon makes sharp, ragged noise every time the Night King pulls back or pushes in, the feel of the two of them sliding together making him tremble and his head ring, tingling through his skull and down his spine. The Night King keeps them like that for hours, watching Jon's every swallow and the shallow curve of his throat, the flutter of his eyelashes, the steam of his breath as he lets out another breathless groan while his skin shimmers from cold and heat and ice crystals.

And every time he thrusts deeper, he keeps one arm tucked underneath Jon's, fingers drawing circles over the head of Jon's cock and under the sensitive skin just below it. His other hand glides down Jon's chest, past the scratchy hair between his legs, and slides over it until his other fingers reach up, massaging the inside of Jon's cunt until the the echo of their wanting, hungry bodies starts to freeze, only he doesn't stop, and the friction melts the ice again. And Jon, in his few lucid moments when he's allowed to catch his breath, wonders if the Night King will keep them locked together like this, starving and needy, forever, if he can freeze time so this can last long as he pleases, if this is the future he wants once he's made night truly endless.

Jon's ecstasy builds until it's all he can feel, shaking with need until it's met and doesn't cease, and he finds himself almost forgetting why he fights, when all he wants to do is give in.

When Jon is finally spent, having been fucked within an inch of his endless newly leased-life, the Night King eases the constant push-pull of pleasure and overstimulation. He remains taut and heavy as a mountain, and keeps eyeing Jon with blown irises while he pleasures himself, pressing kisses against into the nape of Jon's neck or under Jon's jaw or the crest of his ear before kissing him full on the mouth again, tasting him and salty sweat while Jon recovers, drawn to the heat he can't make but wants to nestle closer to, anyway.

Jon's eyelids start to flutter, his every muscle flushed and feeling both lighter and heavier than they have before, like all the exhaustion has been wrung out of him but he still never wants to move from this place.

The Night King's two fingers caress Jon's chest, still sticky and tracing designs Jon doesn't recognize while the other arm settles under Jon's own, slung around Jon's waist while Jon starts to drift off.

"I'll take care of you, my king without a crown. Rest as long as you wish." The Night King whispers.

Jon is too tired to argue and point out that promise of ownership is exactly the kind of thing the Night King seems to be trying to avoid.

But he thinks the Night King knows that, deep down. And belatedly, Jon realizes that's what truly makes him dangerous, more than something inhuman or a force of nature that cannot be repelled.

The Night King may not be afraid, but he punishes the living for the same flaws he knows he cannot curb, the same parts of himself he fears along with everyone else.

He knows humanity because it never left him- and that scares Jon most of all.

Inside his head, Jon hears Ygritte laughing at him.

 _You always try to fix what you think is broken,_ She'd once said, _And yet you never realize the ones you want to save know they are not broken at all._

The thought isn't exactly comforting before Jon dozes, but not many of them are.

\--

When he dreams, he sees through Ghost's eyes, and watches a tiny band make its way south of the wall, Sansa, Bran, Arya, their wolves, Sam, and Gilly (who has swaddled little Sam and held him close) herding a small train of surviving Northerners- Winterfell citizens, Wildlings, and former Night's Watch- alike, with no wights or pale-skinned walkers in pursuit yet.

For one night, he sleeps easy, more rested than he's ever been.

\--

Tormund is not with them. He stands vigil by the Weirwood, and tends the torches in the courtyard, trying to find stars in this endless night, and wondering if Jon is safe in the grasp of a new king who pretended he wasn't one.

He wishes he could take Jon from this place and ferry him far away from the monster that haunted him, who singled him out and felt drawn to the flames when Jon deserved better.

He thinks of his seven children and the woman who bore them, of one son who burned, and how the others rose with icy blue eyes...

They were stolen from him, too.

\--

When he wakes, bleary, eyes stuck shut and muscles able to do little more than twitch, the curve of his body prickles, and Jon huddles closer to the weight of the softness around him, curving into the shape of a hand tracing his cheekbones and the solid weight pressing under his spine.

"Sleep well?" The sound is throaty and deep in his ear, rumbling against Jon's chest.

Jon makes an noncommittal grunt, and cuddles closer against the cold, hair sticking to his skin and falling like a sheet over his face.

"Good. That's good." The Night King hums, and Jon tilts into the hands caressing him, unable to keep away.

"I let them go." The Night King adds, conversational, like those four sudden words wouldn't send Jon careening upright into wakefulness, shallow breaths panting on his tongue and heart remembering how to race, once again thudding in his ears.

_Seven Hells-_

The Night King whispers a few comforting words, shushes Jon like he's a panicked animal, cradles Jon in his arms while he presses him back down against the bed, and sighs, "You need not fear no disassembly with me, Jon. I know which war you've been fighting. I know what drew you North to meet us at Hardhome. I know where your loyalty always lies. But just because you love them does not make us enemies. And while I know the many, layered reasons as to why you gave yourself over to me, in time, I hope that you will find it unnecessary to juggle so many priorities at once. Intimacy should be simple. And it will be, once your fears have truly been washed clean, and you find yourself able to be honest and open about your desires, and are truly able to trust me."

As refreshing as this sentiment is towards Jon's many rebellions and two-faced allegiances, subtle or otherwise, Jon still finds himself feeling feverish and sick to his stomach, spiraling down a whirlpool of thoughts he can't control, but he forces his breathing to go even and dares glance up into the Night King's eyes.

"I did not mean to offend-" Jon weighs each word like it's a knife suspended against his neck, or three bolts shot in his back, but the Night King presses a finger to Jon's lips, guides it down his chin and strokes his chest like the ice will calm Jon's heart, his other hand still untangling Jon's unkempt strands of hair.

"You didn't." The Night King assures, looking down at Jon with lidded eyes, like he's both amused and fond but also fiercely protective, as if he's studying the lines of Jon's pursed lips and pinpricks for pupils in those dark eyes, and wondering who dared to leave those kind of scars for Jon to fear him so... Even if he knows the exact reason Jon would be both so reticent, accommodating, and panicked all at once.

"Be at ease." He murmurs, "We both want to save the North, and to keep our people and our family and the innocents of the world safe. We just have very different ideas of how to go about it, you a former crow without a wall to defend and myself a king without a kingdom. I will not begrudge you your position, even if I do hope to change your mind with time, once you see that I am not fighting a war to be feared. When you realize I only crave your happiness- even if you think your happiness is not worth what you assume it will cost. But there is nothing for you to fight now. And I think, one day, you'll see that."

"I would have thought you'd be disappointed." Jon manages. He is still not sure this man could get angry. The Night King, for all his indomitable and overwhelming presence, doesn't seem one to be roused to fury, even if his omnipresent, endless certainty scares Jon more than anything else.

The Night King shrugs.

"We are locked in this dance, you and I. Your nature is to beguile, to ensnare, and mine to chase you down and take you home. Yet I must ask: what drove you to decide this, to think such of me?"

Jon looks down at his knuckles, tracing the fingers clasping his own.

"I don't know. I just... I couldn't let you keep them prisoner in our home, even if that's not how you see it. They have been trapped enough... As have I. We've grown used to being captive in Winterfell, for our hearth to be ours no longer. And I will not... _cannot_ go quietly, not when this war comes to swallow all the others. I will not let you kill more innocent people or make their choices for them, especially when you think you are doing the opposite, saving everyone, when I know you are not but can't see it. You are not a cruel or vile man- and I don't know what level of pain could make you like this- but I can't allow your purpose to be realized, either, even if I have no control over what happens any longer. If I am the only thing standing between you and the world, then that is what I'll be."

"I see." The Night King pauses, gives Jon room to calm himself, and adds, "We'll work on that. You have choices, Jon, even if you think they are obsolete. But tell me, if the ones you love do not dwell here... Where will they go?"

And Jon finds his heart sinking again, even as the Night King draws him back in, pressing another kiss to his cheek before he guides Jon lower on the bed.

The words he says are like knives to Jon's heart, even if their cadence is soft and intended to be comforting.

"I'll reach them, eventually. Give them a home they cannot lose, along with all my other charges marching tirelessly across the land. But I confess, you make a compelling distraction, enough to turn my eyes from outside and focus them only on you. Was that not your plan, even once you found yourself reciprocating in truth?"

As the Night King makes him shudder with need again, Jon wonders how far the winter and its legion have spread across Westeros, if it's already crossed the oceans and quieted other unknown shores...

Jon wonders how far gone he must be now, to have been so thoroughly caught in the eye of the storm that he did not see how much the ice has already swallowed up this place, for the silence and darkness to have become routine, and yet still somehow felt like home.

He misses Ghost, even if he could not stay and Jon could not condemn him this fate, to keep him trapped and bound to Winterfell what it was already fallen.

It's like the last ties to his living memory are all fading, all become numb through the ice and snow, and Jon wonders if his old life left with his direwolf, if that was the only part of him that was truly alive when their minds met, and if all the rest was just the echoes of a person Jon was no longer.

He thinks, maybe, that is wrong.

But he's not sure he's all there, either.

\--

When they rise, and dress, the Night King says he has affairs to attend to with his adopted brethren, and Jon could choose to accompany him or not.

Jon, despite knowing he should be watchful, should be absorbing any information he can use, feels too hollow to try to plan anything new, and instead wanders through Winterfell like a shadow.

It's silent now except for the sound of his own feet, and those same footfalls have grown less heavy ever since Jon left the wall.

\--

When Jon kneels by the Weirwoods to pray, Tormund shuffles into the clearing, and lays a giant hand on his shoulders. He sits bent with his knees crossed and pointed towards the dark sky, settling at Jon's side like he's always been there.

He doesn't make a quip about the dark purple marks dotting Jon's neck. Or say anything at all.

Jon tastes sawdust.

"You could have saved yourself." He manages, voice small and rasping. "You could've left."

_You could have your freedom back, however fleeting, and prepared to fight for a world that hasn't been broken yet._

Tormund shakes his head.

"I am a free man, little crow. No one tells me where to walk. And I'm staying here, with you. Least until we both make it out of here alive."

Only Jon's not sure that's right.

He's not sure he made it out alive the first time, after the price for defending man and the Wildlings from certain death meant a dozen and more knives in his chest.

Jon dips his head, and then he's found himself in Tormund's arms, buried in furs and a strong grip that does not let him go, ragged red hair and beard dotted with snowflakes swamping all of Jon's vision.

"That's a fools errand." Jon mumbles.

"Then we're both fools." Tormund answers. "Always were, maybe. But we'll make do. That's what it means to survive in a place where nothing grows. We stick together. Keep each other warm while we wait out the cold. Like bears, hibernating in a cave, waiting to rouse themselves and bare their teeth and let their rage claim their lands back from those who would take it." He rambles.

"You _should_ have saved yourself." Jon answers, but he's still shaking, vehemence tasting sour in his mouth. 

No one else should shoulder his burdens.

"Jon. I will never walk a free road if it means condemning you. You go, I follow. Not because you're a crazy man who stole a dragon, or a King in the North who doesn't want it, or promised to some ancient lord of the snow, or because you promised to save my life and the lives of all the free folk when your people demanded otherwise. I am with you, until the end, because I want to be. Because I choose to be. Because you are my friend. And no king or God or monster is going to take that away."

"I can't lose you, too. I can't, I've lost too much, we all have-" Jon breathes, sucking in too many shallow breaths and not feeling any relief.

"You won't. One way, or another, I'll be here. We'll survive this. Even if we change, we'll still grow. That is what being alive is. And if I have to turn into some icy beast to stay and keep you company, then I'll do t-"

"Don't. Don't sacrifice yourself and say it's for my sake. I want... I _need_ you to live, Tormund. To stay free, to be you and _stay_ you, until the end," Jon snarls, glaring at him, until his face falls again. "I can't bear to watch you suffer because of me. And I won't watch you give up your freedom to leverage mine-"

"I will live and die in whatever manner I so choose. Human or not. Not even you can demand otherwise." Tormund growls, and then his tone softens. "Jon... I would not sacrifice myself if I thought it would make things worse for either of us, and I don't think I'll need to. I know we'll find a way to win this war, this war for the world... but also you. Too many people have laid their claim, when you best remember you belong to yourself. You always have, and you always will. Not even the winter or dying or the fire can change that. You hear me?"

Jon sobs and laughs and hugs him tighter, throat tight and unable to say a single word.

The crows may have left the grounds, having migrated  or froze.

But one remained.

And the last breathing Wildling left in the North was not going to abandon him in to the Night.

They would walk the ice together, unbury the trees from the earth. They would find a way to wake the sun, and not let it burn this place into a desert, just as the ice would devour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the NK is like: heck yeah I AM THE NIGHT! (nanana BATMAN although Mr. Freeze would object)
> 
> you have no idea how much willpower it took me not to have the NK be like: you know what else is a mouthful? ;)
> 
> (I am a horrible person and I might put that in there because I fucking love puns even if it's fucking stupid, but also because imagine the look on Jon's face when this super-calm and collected ancient being who is regal, terrifying, sad and trying to woo him while willingly massacring everyone has the audacity to throw out innuendos like they are going out of style, so much like the wildlings do. imagine the cognitive dissonance as his brain shuts down)
> 
> edit: whelp I couldn't resist
> 
> real talk, though, what the fuck should I name him??? you can't have badly written sexytimes without the people involved having names.
> 
> note to self, discuss First Night and dragging Jon off to the Land of Always Winter and allusions to Tormund and wildlings and their role in the hierarchy of dead things because the Others are their own society tied more to the first men, and therefore the traditions of the Starks and Wildlings, even if I'm also going with ties to Valyria and Targs and Ironborn, too. The Others aren't human, but the Night King is like a mix of former human and alien entity, so he's got a legacy but also isn't human anymore
> 
> real talk if someone is an immortal being and technically your great-uncle at least 160 generations removed (and that's a conservative estimate), is it still incest?
> 
> because I wasn't sure if we're working with LOTR logic here or if it doesn't matter much because everyone in GOT is cool with incest as long as it's at least 3 generations removed or something and not sibling incest
> 
> anyway head's up because if that counts as incest... then I guess there's more distant incest even though we're already been plagued with way too much incest in GOT already
> 
> but I'm still not sure it counts because NK has completely different genetic mutations and separate consciousness from the body that become the Night King thanks to also being an ice fae possessed by a power of darkness so *shrugs* like, he's basically an alien possessing his former body, no lie
> 
> (anyway slight tmi notes below, so if you don't like weirdly candid discussions of explicit fic don't read)
> 
> logistically speaking, how the heck can the NK go down on anyone? Like, he's got pointy horns. That seems like a safety hazard. but Jon is usually a sub so I guess I won't overthink this. but something tells me blowing ice fae causes brain freeze.
> 
> fyi, I hate sex scenes, I mostly write them out of spite because I want to be able to write them well even if I will probably never write something chill. I'm mega ace, and the only reason I ever care about sex scenes to show an extremely vulnerable emotional state or for it to be relevant to someone's characterization and plot arc because of the effect it has. Kissing, cuddling- all that fluffy stuff is easy. Major horrific torture? Fairly easy to write because I already see sex as pretty horrifying. (reading GOT I just skipped parts, tbh, the smut was bizarre) 
> 
> But when it comes to happy relationships I stick with stuff that isn't innately slash much because I just have trouble wrapping my head around it, and I only really write slashy stuff with the implications of magical intervention
> 
> also the whole "King in the North" and the fact the Others have a monarchy/hierarchical system will be talked about, and will be sort of handwaved by the NK because their political hierarchy is for ppl who aren't human and therefore irrelevant because their kind of order is not the same thing as human hierarchical things
> 
> but that's another discussion for another time
> 
> last thoughts: on Jon's end, the things I gotta unpack more:
> 
> he's got an internal checklist and is weighing the pros/cons of this and going... okay some of this is really bad but if you disregard this is the great enemy I've been fighting this whole time, not the worst romance ever
> 
> his checklist is:
> 
> -is it incest? really bad incest?
> 
> -do I really have a choice ? maybe he'll back off, but something tells me he's thinking that since we both can't die forever that he'll eventually get what he wants
> 
> -can I use this against the NK to defeat him or possibly change his mind on this whole thing because the dude has clearly been in solitary isolation for too fucking long
> 
> -oh no he knows all my kinks
> 
> -intense shame for his own wants, and that he has slept with the enemy more than once and the enemy knows he's got a thing for ppl beyond the wall, and at his own crippling fear of total failure
> 
> Meanwhile the NK is like: I'm not supposed to feel things but fuck it, I've sacrificed enough, and I have a type, seeing as I fucked Rhyllor and Azor Ahai and I'm really into his reincarnation
> 
> so fun times all around


	16. March of the Profane (segment & spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be around chapter 14.
> 
> In light of the NK and his whole deal, Dany has to consider some... options.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Curse of the Necrodancer.

"He wants us to play his game? Fine. We'll play. But we'll do it better. We'll do it right."

There's a glint in Dany's eyes that makes Jon's stomach go sour, and Missandei looks at him and then back at her queen, shifting nervously at the unfamiliar blank emotion she's only ever seen when pure rage at being thrown into a corner, at being unestimated, with her back supposedly to the wall. It's the same determined look Dany gets once she has chosen her path, whenever Dany said Dracarys and watched her will be done.

Once, that would have filled Missandei with reassurance.

Now... After everything...

Missandei isn't sure she can let this go unchallenged.

"Wait-" She says, and at first, it is so quiet, she's not sure she said anything at all because it doesn't look like Dany even heard her, because otherwise she would look at her.

Then she squeezes Grey Worm's hand, and says it louder.

This time, Dany stops short, and her face isn't far away and cold. No, there's hurt there, and confusion, and exhaustion, but she's listening.

And it's a start.

Missandei doesn't know if it will last, if it will matter, but she knows, if anyone can change her queen's mind...

She had the best shot, and the fact she was worried it wouldn't matter said a lot more about her own fears, her own questions of who Dany has become with the mantle of queen weighing on her head, and if she's still the woman Missandei laughed with and trusted and who promised their words would all matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and before you go... but isn't making wights of your fallen enemies or accidental slaughters slavery if they don't get memory and free will as part of the resurrection package?
> 
> the answer is yes, yes it is, and if you think Missandei and Grey Worm aren't gonna call out Dany's questionable tactics... hoo boy this has been a discussion long in the making actually. Dany has always seen herself as a moral authority setting people free, and relied on Missandei for pretty much everything, and it's interesting that Grey Worm and Missandei were both directly slaves but still subject to the will of someone else and expected to go along with her. They don't get to make the rules despite being free, isn't that interesting, and they don't give themselves credit for freeing themselves on a personal scale before Dany was even in the picture. The narrative tries to pretend they have autonomy when they are still being swept along, and while they make their own decisions, the narrative weight ultimately ties them to Dany against their own arcs. Let's complicate and challenge that. Let's give people who really deserve to call the shots and can leverage real freedom and call out someone who was sold like them but still had different rights, was still not born into slavery, but was given all the credit for liberation when without Grey Worm and Missandei that wouldn't happen. Also, it's high time they challenge the idea that freedom isn't subject to coercion when their status was granted to them and held over their heads as a reward for loyalty in some ways because they can speak out directly for their own relationship to Dany, particularly when Dany wants to force people into compliance and still call it freedom when it is oppressive and authoritarian and ruling through fear under a different brand of semantic language.
> 
> Also, it's gonna be fun watching them navigate their love for Dany, their rights to themselves and their own lives, their compassion for people in their position and how their main goal is to genuinely free others and make a better world, their role as Dany's most trusted people, their role still being helpful but not dependent on Dany, and navigating their own wants outside of working Dany's campaign. Disentangling their habits from being raised in a slave environment and under abuse (even with Dany also being an abuse victim) is gonna be interesting to contrast with what learning and embracing what actual autonomy and freedom allows. If they are free, they should be treated as equals, and the question is how do they get Dany to do the same not just with them, and if Dany will treat them as equals with all her own power-issues and ambition and destiny and propensity for violently dealing with anything she doesn't agree with or like to reflect on about herself.
> 
> But also this moral event horizon doesn't just come out of nowhere, and arguably this is one of the darkest moments for Dany that I have her descend down to. There's gonna be a lot of stress on Dany's plate, and since she's in between a rock and a hard place for multiple reasons, we're gonna see her justify this to herself and rationalize herself into a corner thanks to the NK also being OP, and then she's gonna have to come to terms with it, and then she'll have to do some serious self-reflection if she wants to claw herself back from this. But instead of having a narrative like the show, which makes her out to be beyond herself, beyond reason, she's gonna have to stare down her own flaws and have the people she loves be like: WTF and it's gonna be fun to make Dany have to face her own demons and figure out if she's gonna give into them or not.
> 
> Also, Grey Worm got character assassinated in the finale and I am not over that, either. He was made into a brutal caricature of how western media portrays people they see as unsympathetic or unworthy of their own arc, and made to slaughter innocents when I think with his newfound ideas of who he is he wouldn't, even for all his loyalty to Dany, even if it was mostly through rage and grief for Missandei, but I don't think Missandei would have chosen to have innocent people die as fallout and I think Grey Worm knows that, and the narrative did not allow for Grey Worm to pick kindness or happiness or his own way, or to live without war. He deserved better than that. He deserves healing and hope and friendship, too. Let him rest and let him and Missandei have some time to chill to themselves without being thrown all over the place. Give them a vacation.


	17. Hunt or Be Hunted (half a chapter but can be read as-is)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Missandei faces down who Dany used to be, and who she is becoming.
> 
> Chapter title from Witcher 3.
> 
> Occurs roughly three chapters after March of the Profane and before Nosk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka "You were the Chosen One Anakin"
> 
> (how dare you we were all rooting for you)
> 
> anyway Missandei deserves this moment, too, girl needs to decide what she wants to do with her life without orbiting Dany constantly and once Dany shapes up they can truly embrace each other because they are both heartbroken right now

"Whatever happened to the woman who broke the chains at Astapor, at Yunkai, at Mereen? Where is the Khaleesi who promised all slaves could go free, who crucified the masters but would not harm a hair on a child's head?" Missandei yells, stepping forward, and Dany's hand reaches out for a lifeline, for a familiarity that Missandei only flinches back from.

"There is no other way! I thought there was a path we could take, a better path, one we could build together. But as long as we stand defenseless in this world, waiting for the ice to claim us or the fire to burst forth, there can be no peace! It is Rhyllor or the Night King, they will not rest until the world of man is drowned in a war they have never ceased fighting. I cannot allow that. I will not allow that. We once spoke of forging a new path, and how if all men must die, we are not men. But what comes for us now, it does not care about what we wanted to build. It will spare no woman, no child, no babe in their arms. There can be nothing but ice to freeze our veins or Rhyllor's ashes in front of us, to bring Valyria's empire back or a world of eternal sleeping darkness! And I will not live in a world where that condemns us to be broken or dying women. I will not live in a world where free men are forced into choosing a side. I will not live in a world where infants are taken into the snow and born as monsters. And if I have to resurrect the living myself, if this is the only path left, then I will choose for them, since the others will not allow the world any mercy I have tried to give. I will be a better queen that either of them, one that does not condemn the world to slavery but takes them from the grip of both the Night and the Dawn!" And then the fire in Dany's screams dies into a whisper, into the echo of a girl she once had been, the girl and her naive, idealistic dreams in a world only promised to those with power, and she begs, "Please, Missandei. Please stay with me. I cannot do this alone."

Tears stream down Missandei's face, and she rips herself from Dany's outstretched hand.

"No. I have walked down every road with you, but I will not walk down your path any longer. Not like this. Not until my sister comes back to me. Not until you remember who you are! Because you are not Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. You cannot claim those any more, after all you aim to do. But if you ever remember, if you ever see you can be yourself again, look at yourself and embrace the truth. You are Dany, my friend, the queen I chose, one who saw corruption and did not choose power or to inflict pain or to resigned herself to the way things are, but a woman who chose truth, chose love, who offered water to those who could not drink and safety to those who had no home and who looked at me and saw a woman with dreams and hopes and a future if only the chains around my neck were loosed and I could walk as a free woman." And then she looks down, heaves in a breath, and then stares into Dany's eyes, and she shouts, "You were my sister! And I do not know who it is that looks back at me anymore!"

And then Missandei walks down the steps, head held high, sobs muffled and strangled in her throat.

Dany does not demand she come back. She has become many things, not all of them anything she wants, but she is not an oathbreaker. When she freed her new family, she promised they could leave her without repercussions, and even if on some level she knew they would not, because they were indebted to her, because she saw them as equals, the truth remains that she could not demand loyalty or love, and already knows she has chosen fear. It is all she can feel anymore- but if it between survival and losing everything, then that is who she must become. 

If Missandei cannot walk that path with her, then she will just have to forge a path on her own. Like she had to, in the beginning, only she's no longer a defenseless, easily swayed little girl, but a woman who has lost too much and has nothing to cling to except a world she can only pray for in her head.

It does not change the anguish she feels, the crumbling of everything around, when Missandei turns away and does not look back once.

Grey Worm follows her, silent. Holds her hand, and looks back, gaze lingering, like he has hope for Dany still. Like she might follow them, might choose them over this.

She doesn't.

Dany, just Dany, a woman with no crown and no name, and no legacy to hold once it is erased when the Long Night follows, stands there, completely alone, the very family she'd found and made her own no longer hers, and she misses them with a physical pain, like she's been stabbed and left to bleed out, before they've even left the shore.

But it is a price she will pay, if it will turn the tide of this war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who rewatched some early Dany stuff (btw she did NOTHING wrong* for a long time, she just didn't plan ahead or deal with helping ppl in the best ways because she was learning, but she had the spirit)
> 
> (*okay, the taking over and assuming she knew best/self-righteousness/lack of listening skills and blatant cultural rehash/takeover was still very wrong, but her heart was trying to feed and free ppl through the new power structures available to her, and the anti-slavery tack was still good even if the framing of her being a messiah figure was a bad move. Like, the setup for her downfall coming from good intentions but selfish/self-centered places was there. But I want her to capitalize on the part of her that isn't that)
> 
> and then I rewatched the new stuff and saw exactly what made her fucking snap and crave power for the sake of power and control and not for the good of all who walked with her, even if that was still a side motive
> 
> seriously though with some self-reflection I think Dany could be that woman she saw herself as in the beginning again, if she only took a step back from ambition or power and humbled herself to the girl she was, the one with compassion and mercy and willing to stand for justice and truth but the wellbeing of others despite her own goals, like, if she got over herself and was actually invested in helping ppl for the sake of it, she'd get out of her own way and everyone else's
> 
> the only question is how will she make up for the blood on her hands that it took to get back to the person she was?


	18. Soul Sanctum (segment again don't mind me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter immediately before Nosk with Dany and Jaime in the House of Black and White.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Hollow Knight.

"Come closer, my child." The voice whispers.

Dany steps forward as if in a trance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the NK is hanging around then Rhyllor should be a threat, too.


	19. Infected Crossroads (segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title a song from Hollow Knight.
> 
> I wanted to get started on the Missandei POV so have some of that, even if it's short.

Missandei knows 19 different languages. She knows how to climb a tree to the highest branches, an unforgotten memory from her time on edges of the white beaches of homeland, a homeland so easily stripped from her grasp.

These are just two skills she prides herself on, although she, like her brothers, never had a chance to learn to swim, although Mossador had promised to teach her before their captivity, just as he taught her to climb.

Missandei- who called herself "this one," once, but no longer... Missandei, the one without a name but a free woman with a future and a cause, keeps the tiller steady and makes her way to her old home.

Grey Worm sits next to her, holding her hand, and keeps watch of the skies, Drogon's shadow gliding over the prow at a steady pace.

Both of them do not speak of the cold wind creeping at their backs, and when it ebbs and blows from the west, from the north, with more icy strength.

They have been afraid for a long time, and faced those fears- and they may still be afraid.

But they know they can survive.

They have conditioned themselves to know that truth, as much as they have kept their happiness held close to their chest, a place where no one could break it, not whips or chains or cruelties or their own hopelessness or fear.

They keep each other from falling into a new fear, the fear of death they had thought they'd conquered, and look towards the horizon.

\--

Missandei has always prided herself when it came to language. She likes seeing what fits together, what matches and what does not. What puzzle to unlock and then to unravel-

Words decide who is made real or not.

Words decide how people conceive of you in their heads.

Words decide how you see the world.

And words, to her, are a sacred duty, unable to be ripped from her like so much else, because words would shape the future, and words would set the world free.


	20. Nosk (tiny spoiler segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Dany have a talk/showdown.
> 
> Roughly chapter... 14 or 15 ish.
> 
> Chapter title also from Hollow Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is interesting to me because I still hate his guts for every horrible thing he's done, and Brienne deserves better, but I love all his positive character development and growth and potential self-awareness despite the fact he's such a horrible person. He's definitely a conflicting character because on one hand, you're rooting for him to keep up not being a horrible person any more, but at the same time your like... But I don't want you to get off scott free after all the things you did! But I also want Brienne to be happy goshdarnit, but her happiness shouldn't be contigent on him either anyway!

"We've both done some horrible things. Do you think just because we want to change, that we changed our minds, that it erases what we deserve?"

 

"How many innocent people died because of you?"

\--

 

Then they are both scrambling up the bank, away from watching, burning orange eyes staring back at them and the clawing hands tearing at the House of Black and White.

 

"I thought you said you could control them." Jaime gasps, dragging himself farther away from the reaching hands.

 

Dany stares at her mirror image eyeing her from across the moat, her own doppelganger mocking her with her own raised hands, keeping the newly resurrected in a thrall of fire.

 

Dany didn't know the price for waking what was asleep, in this war where there were no clean hands and she was going to fight fire with fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are wondering how the heck they got to Braavos, let's just say Westeros isn't doing too well on the "people being alive" front and if the Night King has his way, absolutely everyone (with like, the exception of the Starks and the people he considers keeping alive to keep them happy but only like, 10 ppl) is gonna be on the soul train to zombieville across the sea and otherwise
> 
> which is also conveniently how I get Missandei and Grey Worm to Naath


	21. ilomilo (tiny segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs 3/4 of the way through this fic once Jon is escaping Winterfell. Once again a segment, everyone knows the drill.
> 
> Chapter title a song by Billie Eilish.
> 
> (Also I finished the chapter Bad Romance finally. Writing is taking a really long time. Ideally, I'm gonna finish Winter Soldier and Stone Cold Monday, but honestly the writing happens when it happens.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for people wondering why Rhyllor is spelled that way when it's R'hllor in the books, it's because I'm going with time altered the spelling for the god-mythic figure (whereas when he was alive and a person and an emperor, Rhyllor actually had a colloquial name) which then got circumvented when he re-branded his image.
> 
> And yes, this is because I just really hate apostrophe names.

The Night King looks closed off, but not wrathful.  
  
Maybe there's a hint of doubt, of sadness lingering, something Jon would keep trying to chip away at if he wasn't already too far gone.

"I am not your enemy, Jon Snow. And I would not keep you in a gilded cage, like Rhyllor would of me."

He pauses, perhaps overcome by some emotion Jon dares not name, and when he continues, his voice is flat and as cold as the storm that froze over the sea, and would follow where Jon would cross it.

"When we next meet... You will do what you have to. As will I."

\--

The Night King lets the two of them go.

Half because he means it, and half because the part of him that still hangs on knows their is no real escape from the fallout rushing towards them.

There was never any escape.

Not for him, or anyone else.

Best to forgot and not feel the fires of fury, or fear, or regret, and instead let it all fade and freeze, let everyone ease off into numb oblivion without being worked to the bone.


	22. Norupo (incomplete flashback chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks about Jon's childhood and familial relationships. Chapter title a song by Heilung.
> 
> Eventually, this is gonna be Sansa and Jon, Ygritte and Jon, Tormund and Jon, Sam and Jon, Arya and Jon, Robb and Jon, Theon and Jon, Ned and Jon, and Catelyn and Jon centric segments and very long.
> 
> Right now, it's barely anything, just a placeholder for me to come back to after work when I get to writing my SPN and GOT stuff at the same time since I have found a way to do both! And this is kinda disconnected, but I like framing things for setup before I go back into my plot or when I just need a space to write I guess.
> 
> Also I fixed some mega-typos and accidentally cut off sentences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write this to show how canon is still basically itself but with slightly altered framing (e.g. Jon's self-hatred he overcomes stems from a slightly different place even if the bastard issue is always there), and how that alters the narrative to a degree with internal thoughts but not ultimate outcomes in character development.
> 
> TW: Transphobia (and misgendering/dehumanization with Catelyn) and stuff that might be off-putting for trans folks since a lot of people seem to want us to have to explain our existence when we should just be allowed to be ourselves and not have to justify it b/c we just are, but also I figure ppl want to understand their loved ones, too, and cis folks don't really get dysphoria b/c they don't feel it, so some attempts to do that, too, b/c I want ppl to tacitly acknowledge trans issues in a quasi-medieval fantasy narrative without dumb copouts...
> 
> That and because canon-Jon is differently framed than Trans Jon necessitates, and while I think mine is a complimentary reading of canon, there are still some things I think that need to be ironed out because of what does change as a result of Jon being trans. (Unless we go the route of: Westeros is really cool with trans ppl and immediately validates them, which, while also an interesting tack, doesn't vibe well with how judgy and edgy GOT's world is to pretty much everyone, although I think a trans story where Jon is exactly the same (like he is anyway, although in this case being able to father a bastard as part of his fears would mean very state-of-the art transitioning methods I guess) and Catelyn is exactly the same and the threat of potential succession with the Robb thing is exactly the same is also very compelling, although I don't think it speaks to the real invalidation a lot of trans folks get from most places or how the differences from cis vs trans experiences are realistically b/c of the limits of actual technology/science/healthcare rn and I don't think a drastically wish-fulfilling story of immediate acceptance works with the actual struggles and hurdles trans folks overcome in general. But maybe I'll try something like that one day for the hell of it b/c there aren't enough stories out there for that, either.)
> 
> Also I get that not every trans story has to be a coming-to-terms with being trans or transitioning story, but I like delving into these aspects due to personal reasons, although one day I'd like to be as tacitly open and unapologetic as other authors out there that I love, where being trans is just a side note or not a big deal and just is, and exists as is, and while some of my smaller fic is like that, this particular aspect is important to me at this current time. 
> 
> Although, I would argue my stories don't make being trans a main focal point, it's just a detail I like explicated and detailed for personal, emotional reasons since I really want to transition right now and can't (so this is my coping mechanism) and everyone seems so intent on shutting us up and telling us what to think out in the world and I ain't shutting up in any capacity except for when I can't make my sentences flow due to technical writing capabilities or exhaustion.
> 
> Other than that, I really want to touch on Arya's expression of womanhood and Sansa's expressions of womanhood and contrast it to each other and Brienne's life and struggles, Missandei's life and struggles, and Dany and Yara since there isn't enough celebration of women characters with varying internal thoughts and agency and lives and strengths that Martin did a decent job with (but not totally imo, some things definitely felt very leery and weird to me personally in how he writes women). So they are gonna get focus in here or another chapter following this to explicate those lived lives and their varied lived lives how they are often pitted against each other or have an understanding of each other specifically b/c of how men treat women in GOT holistically.
> 
> But yeah: TLDR Arya's tomboyishness is different from Sansa's mega-femme presentation, and all of that is different from Brienne's type of femininity which kinda melds both but is it's own thing.
> 
> And none of that is anything remotely comparable to Jon being trans because they are completely different things entirely, but I figure Arya's characterization is a good jumping-off point to explicate how Jon's experience as a man is entirely different from Arya's lived experiences as a girl despite the fact that they rely on each other and share hobbies and are treated certain ways due to other people's perception of women (and b/c hobbies and clothes are not a gender thing, and should be obvious, but I think it's a good way to internally have the cis characters pick up on how trans issues are different on a textual non-meta level).
> 
> And there's a lot of talk of men in prophecies and a male heir to Rhaegar being a sticking point, so I was gonna look at that anyway.

"Arya... You don't want to be a boy, deep down, do you? To have a beard or deep voice, or anything else that comes with it. Not like I do. You just want to be able to be yourself and do everything you want without people telling you what's your business. It's different, right?"

"I wouldn't say no to a deep voice." Arya jokes, but then she looks at Jon, solemn. "But I hear you. And I know how it's different for you, when you know you're one thing but everyone seems so focused on getting it wrong."

Jon claps her on the shoulder and hugs her close.

"It doesn't matter what their opinion is. All that matters is we know the truth. And you deserve to be the best swordswoman from here to the far lands, just as much as I can wish to see the world and make something that will last."

\--

"A lot of people want what they don't have. Some people want to be a knight. Some people don't want to be bastards." Robb's words, usual so careful, so intent to not make Jon feel unwanted or a burden or disrespected, for once give him a cut out, scooping feeling of all the air leaving his lungs.

Jon swallows.

"It's not the same." He manages, voice low.

"No. It isn't. I reckon that's how you tell half the difference, because you already know what it's like to want other things, instead of knowing what you have and who you are, and wishing you could make everyone else see it, too." Robb muses, and then catches the whip-quick relief as Jon finds his footing again, knowing Robb is still on his side, and never left.

There's always that fear of being too much, of being extraneous, even when you know people love you and you're family. That's what happens, when you know you aren't like the rest, set apart, bastard son or otherwise, when any wrong move or need to save face could mean you are no longer valued.

Jon doesn't think Robb is that kind of man, and never has, and Robb knows how to balance secrets and power and his birthright as much as anyone raised by Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully and those fostered in the harsh, unforgiving but fair and honest world of the North.

Things can change, though, if Jon isn't careful. He knows that all too well, and it's not always up to him, or his siblings.

Catelyn is still threatened by him. She always would be.

Jon flies in the face of everything she considers respectable. Being who he is is just another reason for her to flout her not-quite-hidden distaste, when it is not outright disgust, distrust, or careful silence.

\--

And when she watches Jon and her eldest son grow close, it only throws it all back in her face, throws all the unsaid things from the deep to dredge it back, bitter and ugly, like flotsam, to the surface.

What galls her the most is more the fact Ned supports Jon in his flights of fancy and in his relation to his supposed siblings, and always has, in more ways than one. It is not only infinitely threatening to those she considers her true blood and their inheritance, because everyone knows bastards are not to be trusted in matters of succession, and Jon's claim to being a man only served to complicate how he saw his worth in this, even if Westeros would not perhaps yield to such madness as a whole.

Perhaps it is wrong, to hate a child for their parentage, for Cat knows it is not a crime Jon was responsible for. But she could hate Jon for bucking the natural order of things, as far as she sees it, and even if Jon's hushed words she's heard him say to Arya have discouraged her youngest daughter from emulating men to the point of "being" one like Jon claims, it doesn't change the stain he is on her family's honor.

She mostly hates him for his nameless mother and the fact she knows she cannot love him. The fact she knows she's a liar, deep down, who swore an oath and couldn't keep it, but really she hates him most for how much he emulates his father- he's just like Ned, more than any of her own children, who mostly look more like hers than his...

But the worst of it all is how Ned treats him like the rest, like he deserves to be there, and deserves to be catered to in this even as one bastard-born abomination. How Ned welcomed this child into their home and expected her to cater to it, to mother it, when it was beyond Cat's abilities and she thinks she might just hate her husband for having that kind of faith in her, too.

It's an impossible thing to ask of anyone. No other highborn suffers such troubles, caving to more than one backwards-way of ceding to someone else in something that cannot be love, not when it flies in the face of all she's willing to contemplate...

And the fact she cannot make Ned yield in this one immutable thing is enough to make the resentment burn.

She has her target, though, even if she must redirect her scorn for her husband in this and cannot conceive of anything other than to make the child pay for the sins of it's own follies- for being born, for his father's actions... for the quiet truth that Cat knows Jon knows just who he his, and the fact she's expected to see Jon as a man when there must be woman's name she knows was whispered on his nameless mother's lips, and that remains a mystery as much as anything else.

And how a woman could hate themselves so much to think themselves a man... She knows the trials women like her face, and she could understand why Jon might be like this, might eschew to find an easy way out. Being a bastard didn't mean he was all there, all right, there is always something rotten with bastards- but perhaps there was a freedom there, too, for if the world would scorn him for being a bastard there wasn't much else left to scoff at.

But Ned's bastard daughter would never be a son of hers, or a son of Winterfell- even if, sometimes, she cannot help but see how he's a son in all the ways that matters to her husband and her children and the people who call this place home. The fact he fades into the background, quiet and unassuming and half-accepted for this, even though there are those that know what matters and that this is not the order of things... The fact that she has to witness it makes her furious.

That, and there was no way to make Ned send the child away. There was little scandal that could be proven, aside from the bastard's heritage. Ned had seen to it, had done much to keep Jon's other secrets, so much that most everyone else outside the immediate family didn't know the truth- and the ones that kept to themselves knew to keep quiet or respected this tradition that was a Northern one, to mind their own damn business.

The fact she was expected to keep it as well rankles, and Cat did so purely out of devotion to her family's honor and a spite that was almost more than she could bear, sometimes even more than the threat that her husband, supposedly loyal and the most honorable man she knew, had failed to love her enough that faith alone couldn't salvage this, could heal the rift and the fact that he'd bedded another woman after they'd been promised to each other and still made a good life together, despite it.

But she was loyal to Ned, even if she hated him for this one blemish, for this child she did not ask for, for the one that ripped the wool from her eyes and asked her to accept a world and a truth so fundamentally unacceptable to her.

The fact that the Night's Watch and Benjen would take Jon away regardless, and that Jon accepted it, actually aspired to it, and that the Watch saw Jon as who he said he was remained a mixed blessing, in her mind. But that acceptance made him eligible to serve, and it got him out of Winterfell, and away from the threat she always seen in him as long as he lurked in the background...

Even if, truth be told, the real threat had never been Jon at all. He'd been the last thing to threaten her family, her willingness to trust the wrong people and jump to conclusions just another tragedy and threat, as all denials and suspicions are.

In the game of thrones, such assumptions are deadly, and it is not always the one who sets the wheel in motion who pays the price.

\--

Sam understands Jon better than most, even more than Arya sometimes, Jon finds, and that is half of what helps them trust each other while they watch the other's back.

His entire life, Sam had always suffered being looked down upon for appearing soft, for liking things men weren't supposed to like, like books and dancing and food and words and poetry, not combat, not posturing, not violence or the things men supposedly embodied. It didn't make him less of a man, and Jon knew that, just as they both knew men and women didn't need to be or act certain way, or to like one thing or another. They just _are_ , same as anyone else.

Just as Sam knew that Jon was a man inside and out, and that a few god-cursed details didn't change the absolute truth. A beard and flat chest and parts you got certainly made a man feel more like a man, but there were men without those, too, and men who lost them, and it didn't change who they are, even if people would pounce on those unfortunate to suffer such wounds.

Jon still talks about being set apart or the struggles of being treated like a person, sometimes, because Sam would listen, would not always quite get what Jon was meant but empathized anyway (and because, more often than not, Sam understood people lashing out. In truth, Jon feared being a bastard more than being accepted as a man. He knew who he was, and no one else's opinions could change that- but being a bastard made Jon question himself, question his worth, his legacy, what he'd do to make his mark on the world and how it always dogged his footsteps, and Sam helped him with that just as Jon helped him wield a sword or lash out at those who tried to trip and hurt him early on or in the whispered moments when Sam would dare speak of a home that wasn't home and his father that wasn't a father, or how much he did miss his brother even if he didn't want to go back there, not for almost anything except to maybe see those he missed).

As far as they both were concerned, the ones who mattered in the Watch accepted Jon as a brother without question- that was half of what made it bearable, despite all it's other glaring flaws, and those who didn't got the shit kicked out of them more often than not, except when in-fighting got cracked down on- but all in all, the Watch did not take kindly to those it saw outside of itself. You were part of the Watch or an outsider- and the watch did not suffer outsiders, or those who couldn't take the strain.

Frailty doesn't survive the cold winter night, or the wildling's blades, or the whispered evils that most swore weren't real, at least until blue eyes in dead sockets turned out to be more than just myth or whispered ghost stories.

\--

Ygritte, despite all her teasing and sharp edges and inability to suffer fools, has never met a man that both was as smart and calculating and intriguing and quick as Jon Snow, but also as dumb as a brick.

And she'd been caught off guard, not knowing how to needle Jon's weak points but seeing where he was obviously flustered, pushing for information, for an advantage, to get closer to a man she wouldn't pretend she didn't have eyes for. Jon wasn't like most Free Folk, was enticing enough to pursue precisely because he half-didn't want to.

Eventually, she had realized his shyness was not just from honor, or fear, or not wanting to stop encouraging some strange taboo of fraternizing with the "enemy" before she'd reminded him he was one of them, free now, too, because he'd chosen it, and he'd best get used to it- it went deeper than that, a secrecy borne of necessity and self-preservation, layers that Jon didn't strip away because he hadn't had to disclose the details few had ever truly understood and kept treating him as a human with. He'd had it, with Ned and his siblings, and with some in the Night's Watch, and Benjen- but those who weren't dead were long lost for him, cast off when Jon rebelled, and he didn't want to suffer for being only a man out here when there were horrible, horrible things that could happen if the worst of humanity was free enough to let it's cruelties out on him, and once being a crow not the largest of his concerns.

After taking a side, Jon had agonized over his vows and not being a man of the Night's Watch any longer. Not just for honor, but because he'd already lost his family once, and everyone who treated him like a brother likely would not any more. And he didn't want to be dishonorable, to challenge the tenants of the Starks and his father who he wondered was truly honorable if he'd given Jon life, too. Jon didn't want to prove the whispers and rumors about bastards right, that he was just as everyone said he would end up like, just for being born.

As for some of the other reticence and struggles Jon kept under lockdown... Some of it was just keeping himself safe, because Jon didn't know if the Free Folk were truly free with everything, would respect him in ways most would not back south if they knew. Oftentimes, those who claim freedom fall to authority under another banner, and it all ends up the same.

But once he'd realized he was accepted, that the Free Folk were different albeit just as human as the rest, and accepted he was a brother of Tormund and Mance and Longspear and all the other free folk he'd thrown his lot in with when he killed Qhorin and became one of theirs, became Ygritte's man after stealing her without knowing what he was doing, even though it's clear as a sunny day to her, and became his own man because everyone out here owned himself and no others what was owed them, as a person...

Jon's biggest fear was that Ygritte would turn on him in that cave, when she saw, when she'd asked him to love her and to be loved back and to see him and to be seen, and laid bare all the things Jon usually kept quiet about, because you didn't know who would hurt you if they knew...

Only she didn't turn away, or strike, or hurt him.

It didn't change anything.

She loved him, and he'd loved her all the same, in that cave and all the times before and after. Ygritte treated him as she would any other equal, and any other man (maybe a little gentler, knowing some wounds were different, and didn't heal easy, and knowing Jon was an evasive one who needed careful handling, anyway, considering how he looked like he'd take flight and run if he didn't have something calling him back so he knew he didn't need his clipped crow wings he so often found solace in).

That, most of all, gave them trust when it's a hard commodity to find these days.

They relied on each other. They kept each other safe. They were in this together.

And if there was a perk that Jon wasn't quite as boneheaded as some men when it came to love or seeing Ygritte for herself and asking instead of assuming, then that was what it was. Even if Jon could be a little stubborn and a little slow, they had something warm, and real, and good...

At least, until it turned out Jon's loyalty wasn't just to her, but to everyone he'd loved and pledged true loyalty to.

A crow hiding in wolf's clothing broke both hearts and trust faster than any arrow ever could. And Jon taking three bolts to the back, even when they both knew they wouldn't kill the other because if she'd wanted, Ygritte would have... It didn't heal the rift of betrayal or abandonment, or the fact they'd be pitted against each other by choosing a side. It didn't make it any easier, knowing it all had been doomed from the start because they had made their beds the moment Ygritte had promised she'd face the Wall and when Jon swore he'd defend it. It didn't make it easier when Jon couldn't stop Ygritte from fading in his arms, falling to a bolt that wasn't his but might as well have been.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also maybe this is too personal, but I have had interactions with women who appear threatened by me being FTM trans and existing as myself (and outside of being trans anyway, particularly when seen as a butch lesbian before I realized I wasn't one), so I'm using Catelyn to explore that stuff and how much hostility I've experienced with people not necessarily outwardly hateful, but more subconsciously and justifying it through other means, because they think being a man but "born" as a woman is a threat to womanhood or who they are (or they just hate ppl who are different from them, gender aspects be damned b/c some ppl are self-absorbed), or also just how a lot of women are socialized to be passive aggressive or in competition or to punch down due to how toxicity* manifests itself a lot and then how that ties into how men get treated or trans men in a society that both punishes men and women in different ways, and punishes non-conformity in general.
> 
> anyway I love my brothers and sisters, trans solidarity and I'm proud of my community! 
> 
> and shoutout to all the butch and femme bi, pan, nb, and lesbian folks out there. I may not be lesbian but I sure as fuck support you guys getting more stories that let ppl be ppl and have various and dynamic inner lives and compelling motives, too. There are not enough stories out there for you guys or us rn.
> 
> *the caveat being maybe I just have bad luck in knowing a lot of nasty individuals who are outliers and should not be counted for how I judge society/groups I guess.
> 
>  
> 
> **also as a sidenote, obviously ppl who don't want beards or a deep voice and anything else related to going on T or having surgery are valid, I just went with personal preference there, and you can be trans and not want to do certain things, it's your body and life and you don't need to explain or justify it, that should be obvious, but I figure there's enough ppl telling us how to live that it is worth explicating here anyway. I just default to things that I want when writing trans characters b/c wish fulfillment b/c I want all the benefits of T without any of the drawbacks.


	23. Mile Deep Hollow (segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title a song by IAMX.
> 
> This is gonna be roughly 5-6 chapters from the end and it will be shameless Jonmund.
> 
> (also it is in no way good or polished or complete yet I'm just doing my thing to try and write anything at all because I have all the things in my head and the words are not cooperating.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but yeah I really want to contrast Jon's experiences with Ygritte on a human level, with the way Jon and Tormund's relationship developed from antagonistic to ride and die, and with his relationship to Dany, and with his inhuman relationship and it's baggage with the NK.
> 
> Like, Tormund doesn't demand things from Jon like everyone else, he's just chill for life and they are best buds looking out for each other and grounding each other and Jon can just be himself and is allowed to exist and be cherished for who he is, just as he does with Tormund, and there's a real awesomeness to that. There's no possessive unhealthy undercurrents or obsessive fascination it's just two people who love each other unselfishly who also want to save the world but also want to appreciate and desperately show their love to each other before they have to face down the thing they've been fighting together in the name of their lives and the lives of the people they want to protect and in the name of the freedom they pursue since Jon is done being treated with a lack of autonomy.
> 
> *sings to the tune of the ASOUE song*
> 
> "This section currently sucks and I can't write for shit today, so look away, look away..."

"I love you, Jon Snow." Tormund says.

Not looking at him, strangely shy in a way Jon doesn't know how to handle.

And standing on his toes, Jon pulls Tormund's shoulders down, leans into Tormund's chest, and kisses him on the mouth, long and deep.

A promise.

They would make it out of this cave and face the night.

But they didn't have to leave the cave quite yet.

If they were going to face death itself, they would cherish what they had first.

\--

Making love to Tormund wasn't the kind of love that make Jon forgot himself.

He felt everything, and they could go slow, even though they didn't have to.

Tormund was human and raw and real and solid, heavy and sweaty and not something ethereal that make Jon lose himself. The act wasn't like reaching up to the stars to find yourself among them, it wasn't like breaching a lake to find the air in your lungs didn't take, all it did was feel so very human, so warm and right and good, but also clumsy, and uncertain, and Jon didn't know why but more than anything, it made him feel like he hadn't forgotten who he was, or what love was, or what want was, or how the musky, grounding scent around them or the crackle of the fire or the softness of Tormund beard despite some of the ice melting off it all merged together to feel messy and hungry and human.

The love they had made their hearts stutter and their limbs loose and it felt weightless and like flying because in the bright wetness of his eyes and the crinkle of his brow and the open gape of his mouth, Jon could see Tormund's every persistent, giddy joy and the warm, protective love and a fierce need to love him with just as much tenderness and ferocity back bloomed right in Jon's chest, so he could prove they were equals, they were free, they did not own each other or demand loyalty and only wanted to love and protect each other, friends and free men struggling to keep their humanity in a dying, shambling world.


	24. Cleric Beast (tiny segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drowned Valyria gets some lore focus for reasons, also Sansa, Bran, and Brienne face off with a new foe.
> 
> Also more lore, although hopefully I'll have explained how I'm taking all my literal interpretations of canon and merging it together before this.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Bloodborne.

Brienne slashes at a tentacle, the Drowned God's champion letting out a screech.

 Sansa regains her balance and wargs into Nymeria and her pack, the two of them facing down this enemy whose eyes stare are them from every angle.

The kraken's bloated mass hauls itself up upon the dais, the earth shaking so much Sansa wonders if they will crumble into the ocean here, drowned and forever forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes Nymeria is Arya's wolf but I want multiple warging capabilities so yeah. Bran isn't gonna be warging for nothing, he and Sansa are gonna have a lot of time on their hands
> 
> also there is gonna be some lore there because Arya's distracted by something else and having issues with Faceless Men during this section
> 
> anyways here comes a new age of heroes


	25. Sisters of Battle (segment and spoilers again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roughly chapter 17.
> 
> Betcha all are like: wait you promised us Missandei and Brienne centric stuff where the heck are they at?
> 
> And the answer is protecting the living and wrecking the Night King's plans as part of the concurrent showdown.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Hollow Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dragon has 3 heads in more than one way
> 
> also this segment doesn't have Brienne and Asha and Grey Worm in yet, it's just Missandei and Drogon

Missandei faces down the twin icy maws of Viserion and Rhaegal, balancing atop Drogon with lance in hand.

"Dracarys!" She screams, and Drogon roars with tongues of flame, dodging the two blows of his brothers and flying higher and higher into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and I know Missandei comes from a pacifist culture she's gonna reconnect with because it's her birthright, but she's fighting the undead so it still counts
> 
> also her getting to ride Drogon is a key plot point and tied to a ton of interpersonal stuff with Dany and Missandei and Drogon's own sentience because there is gonna be a ton of drama before this since there's the whole sisterhood thing but also the fact that Dany needs to be called out on her eventual bullshit, and I'm also using that as a catalyst for Dany to reassess her goals and what she is willing to sacrifice
> 
> if Missandei's gonna wreck shit and be all fire and blood, it's gonna be on her terms and she's gonna get to be freaking important, because she's choosing her path just like everybody else
> 
> but yeah what's really poetic is Dany losing her legacy to her own hubris, learning and humbling herself from it, and meanwhile Missandei gets to choose her own path and live her own life while still standing for the same cause she always has- freedom and a better world
> 
> and also Missandei gets to be part of the Azor Ahai prophecy heck yeah


	26. Time (tiny segment, still spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roughly two chapters before Birthplace, so around chapter 18 ish. Once again draftier than usual and SPOILERS.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Inception.

"Remember us, you have to remember us!" Sansa screams through chattering lips, and then Bran twitches, eyes rolling back as the Night King invades his mind, concentration is lost so he can't hold the tide back anymore.

Rickon and Ned and Robb advance on them with the half-jawless Summer, mottled Grey Wind, and stitched up Lady with her half-lolling, half-attached head, while Ghost and Nymeria circle around them, howling, shielding Bran and Sansa and Brienne and all the others from the threat walking so steadily closer.

Sansa runs up to the pale figure of her father, keeps her wobbling legs from falling over, and grabs hold of the pommel of his sword, over his frozen fingertips, lifted as she holds on for dear life and the metal raises higher in the sky.

"Wake up!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the Starks are wargs and no one can stop me
> 
> anyway if you were wondering why Sansa and Bran and Lady Stoneheart weren't with Arya and Jon in the other scene, this is why, they kinda have enough on their plate and are also serving to split NK's attention
> 
> also I was hoping to write more Sansa dialogue to tie into her guilt around her Dad's death, but it eluded me right now, so that should be happening in the future


	27. Birthplace (segment, also MAJOR SPOILERS because this is the penultimate chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax of the fic but very drafty and I'm gonna change it probably because the pacing is whack and I'm probably gonna explain the mechanics of this better so I can focus on the important parts.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Hollow Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Azor Ahai, a Prince that was Promised, Nissa Nissa and the dragon with 3 heads, but not quite.
> 
> also the power of mega angry queer power... and technically body horror
> 
> aka the chapter of: I will defeat my enemies with the power of friendship, family, and love, and also this cool sword I found

This was an enemy that did not sleep, did not tire, did not feel pain.

Dragonglass and dragon fire might not be enough to kill him.

But together, fire and blood just might.

By now, Arya's and Dany's coats Longclaw, drips down the sides, and Jon wrestles the Night King back, arms wrapped around him in the only embrace that would keep him still, the implacable force of an enemy stronger than him barely keeping him down. Just for the moment.

"Now!" Jon screams.

Arya stabs him through where his heart should be, right through him and skewering the Night King, too, binding them together.

Jon's own congealed blood speckles his mouth as he kisses him, and the flames lit up from his own borrowed life rise up inside his throat and from his lips, up from where his broken heart should be.

Together, it consumes the Night King, burning him the inside out, until he's all but ice melted into the earth, no charred husk to mark his passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the important parts being the betrayed heartbroken fiery kiss of death because I am making this as dramatic as possible
> 
> if Jon's gonna kill people he loves it better have something new to bring to the table
> 
> also Jon's alive I know it seems kinda antithetical since Arya stabbed him but if you think I'm killing my fave character you are wrong


	28. The End (FINAL CHAPTER Segment & spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said I was gonna try to write this linearly?
> 
> I was wrong. So very wrong. SPOILERS!!!!
> 
> Anyway I'm writing three chapters at the same time, so have some of the very happy end with some Tormund and Jon and Sansa while I am still working on the Dany and Jon angst.
> 
> This is a tiny segment, might be cut, but I just wanted to get the image out of my brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, when I say we get Sith Dany, I think I'm gonna go 2 routes:  
> 1 ending with Dany pulling an Anakin Skywalker  
> and 1 ending with Dany pulling a Darth Vader
> 
>  
> 
> it doesn't change that the primary antagonist in this is still the NK but just throwing that out there.

"I heard you have a weakness for red hair. Why choose that one?" A too-inebriated stranger asks, nodding at Tormund.

Sansa purses her lips, still gauging if an intervention is necessary, but then Jon leans forward with a spark in his eyes, glaring and ready to ask just what they mean by that.

But Tormund squeezes Jon's shoulder, and Jon eases when he smiles.

Then Tormund chuckles, tosses his head, and deadpans, "Clearly, I have better hair than everyone in the North. And everyone beyond the wall knows it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I did write this first because I was worried if I didn't I would forget it by the time I got around to it


	29. Wolf Totem (literally a sentence / BEYOND THIS POINT EVERYTHING IS OUT OF ORDER AGAIN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some more of the ending with Grey Worm, probably one of the last three chapters of this fic after most of the craziness has died down. Chapter title a song by the Hu.
> 
> I promise I haven't forgotten about this guys, my attention span is horrible but I still have big plans for this.
> 
> (legit though my hyperfocus is literally jumping from SPN to Batman back to GOT and back to SPN and then to crossover mid-writing chapters these days)
> 
> That being said it's a sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Grey Worm, team democracy.

"There will be no more kings, and no more chains." Grey Worm declares. "We are all free, and we will all choose who rules us."


	30. Nightmare King (segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R'hllor and Dany have some family time.
> 
> Also the reason I spell Rhyllor like that instead of it's canon spelling is because I'm re-doing canon that his actual name got translated differently in lore instead of how his mortal name was spelled.
> 
> Chapter title once again from Hollow Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thought I wrote this and posted it ages ago as a placeholder and then realized I didn't... whoops.

"Come closer, child."

\--

"Strike her down, and take up your birthright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look Rhyllor might sound like Palpatine right now but it's not my fault I wrote this before the last star wars movie came out and any mastermind slave person is gonna sound a little like Palpatine at first, I'll fix it later.


	31. Ulfhednar (partial drafty segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei and Brienne investigate some lore surrounding Valyria, the North, Skaagos, and their own homelands with Sam and Gilly and Meera.
> 
> Aka, I do some more shameless exposition plot setup that is not entirely a chapter yet, also I have a vague idea where this falls on the chronology even though I got to make sure some people are in the same place. But it's after some Naath events, post-Stoneheart's first entrance, and before the giant monster fights that I haven't totally written yet.
> 
> Chapter title a song by Danheim. (Also this may make very little sense at the moment, I apologize.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for taking so long to get back to this.
> 
> Thank you for putting up with the wait (and all the incomplete chapters), I'm trying to get my hyperfocus for this back. Aside from other fixations, I also I lost access to my ability to re-watch the show for a while which messed with my process for body language and general blocking/characterization/lore research because I am not reading the books again except to get voices down.
> 
> I don't think this will be a track for another month or two but I intend to get the ball rolling on this again, provided I have time and energy.  
>  
> 
> That being said, I wanted all these lore nerds to be able to wax poetic about lore, even though this chapter is not anywhere where it needs to be yet, and yes it will connect to Dany and Jon and Jon's past life as the Prince that Was Promised.
> 
> And also how I'm connecting Greyscale to Butterfly sickness and Valyria but I'm still... ironing out details there.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure Missandei can read some dialects, just not certain ones, whereas the Northerners aren't familiar with the writing styles/oral language/any pictographic stuff other non-Westerosi use, but to specify, the words and language and sounds are in her oral tradition, but the actual runes used as Free Folk pictograms because they have shorthand style symbols without it being a written language per se, and Meera has the dialect and connection to the lore because of House Reed Knowing Things.
> 
> And obviously pirates are gonna connect to the Ironborn eventually.

"If you can send up the transcriptions, I can translate. The runes themselves are not a tongue I recognize, but Meera, Sam and I should be able to extrapolate context with enough cooperation."

Privately, Sam thinks it strange that they seem to have all the pieces united so flawlessly. Someone from the Naath, who knows the ciphered language's sounds, even if the inscriptions of the cipher are native to the those beyond the Wall, while they have someone from the Neck, who knows the lore and the link between what is buried in the North and what messages were brought from the South, and someone from Tarth, who had the key to enter the Sanctum by bloodright and by heirlooms past down and fealty once sworn.

It feels... too much to be a coincidence, and that brings a new fear.

There is no safety in prophecy- just as there are no hard truths. 

But Gilly, Meera, Brienne, and Missandei continue pressing on. There is no time to waste- not with the dead knocking through tunnels, and carrion crows darkening the sky.

\--

"Meera's people brought the knowledge from the North, while my people brought theirs from the South." Missandei continues. "So someone had to have intercepted them and taken the key from Valyria in case it was needed again."

"But who were the ones who meted out the Doom of Valyria? Who challenged the cycle?" Brienne wonders aloud. "Who could go all the way from Naath to Tarth and the riverlands, all the way to Skaagos-"

"Pirates." Missandei answers.

"But why would a pirate go through all the trouble to pass this on to a single obscure man to hide this here? The pirates worked for both sides, and had naught to gain from Valyria's fall unless someone else had something better to offer."

"Maybe someone stowed away with pirates but wasn't affiliated?"

"But that doesn't explain the connection to the Maester's records, seeing as they predate them by hundreds of years. And the language- Naath's language might not have changed as much due to their insular ability to keep invaders from the inner parts of the mainland, but the rest have all modulated over the years, they'd be practically unrecognizable-"

"Which explains why they'd use the Free Folk as go-between. The inscriptions are common ones that haven't changed, either, even with language modulating itself." Missandei jolts as if hit by lightning, while Meera keeps transcribing the runes with Brienne to send up the three of them.

"It all makes sense! My people are not bonded by war, but by knowledge, passed down by oral traditions, one that cannot be unwritten but can be coded and known by those who know what to look for." Missandei answers. "That is the key to our mystery. One story set in stone, like the one found on your island- and the other key- set by mine. Our forebears knew that no one could answer the question and reignite the weapon we seek- and whatever knowledge that gave them a means to evade both the Night King and Rhyllor- it had to be coded beyond what the upper echelons of the society would look for. The Free Folk knew the Northern dialect was possible to translate, but knew the odds of someone with knowledge of Naath's language would not be so easy to find by any of the Night King or his followers. Tarth and the Neck and Skaagos- they all follow the line North up from the Stepstones. So whoever was trying to flee Naath and warn the North- that was their ending destination."

"And your explanation of how this is all coming together? If me, you, Brienne, Gilly, and Meera all didn't come together, none of us would have the means to decipher any of the messages. Not without my records from the Maester speaking of this place, not without Brienne's family heirlooms, not without your knowledge, or Gilly's, or Meera's-"

"The Seers. Someone connected to the Godswood, all the way from Naath."

"But your people don't believe-"

"It's not about belief. It's about forces at work. Someone made contact. And they kept up that network- broke it free from Valyria-"

"But why us, now- that's too much specificity, don't you think?"

"Not if the Greenseer saw us."

"But you can't see the future, only the present or the past-"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But that's all that makes sense-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact I have the final chapter of this planned but all it is currently is the sentence DEMOCRACY AKA SAM AND GREY WORM BEING BROS VIVA LA REVOLUTION.
> 
> And I couldn't publish that, obviously.
> 
> So have some Missandei Brienne mutual support instead.
> 
> Also I know GOT is all SUBVERSION OF PROPHECIES but I want Missandei and Brienne to have stakes in the Azor Ahai prophecy along with Shireen and a couple other people so obviously I'm tying some things together very dubiously.
> 
> Also thank you to all the maps posted for GOT, without them I couldn't cobble my plot together due to geography.
> 
> anyway right now this chapter can be summed up as-
> 
> "I've connected things!"  
> "No."


	32. Pure Vessel // Hot Mess (two sentences SPOILERS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wields a sword.
> 
> Meera becomes a face among many.
> 
> Jon rises from the ashes.
> 
> Missandei takes up her birthright.
> 
> Chapter title a mashup of two songs, one from Hollow Knight and one from Crypt of the Necrodancer.
> 
> This is in no way complete but if I didn't post it my brain was gonna riot. The summary is cooler than what is in the chapter atm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Quote ASOIAF:
> 
> "There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."

"We are not the light. We are not the cold. We are the ones who survive the darkness."

"The darkness does not flee before us. It is what our footsteps are made of. We are shadows- the living hiding from a world of dead things. And we will take the darkness back."

\--

"The weapon doesn't slay the dead. It keeps them from rising. Destroy the forge, and you destroy the way they linger."


	33. The Shadows Betray You (two sentences)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Night King and Tormund.
> 
> Chapter title a song by Hans Zimmer.
> 
> Occurs like, 4 chapters before the end probably?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussions of kind of child and parent death/face off even though some are undead so angst in general?
> 
> Anyway, if anyone is curious, the way I write my stories is I go:
> 
> Okay, what emotional arc is core to the characters I love and what they value? How do I want to see them grow? Where do I want them to end up? What crux of issues should they face to highlight the parts of them that I love and I want to challenge?
> 
> Once I've settled that, then I go into their mindsets and emotions and motives to get them where I need them to go.
> 
> Then I find a song that helps me feel the vibe and scene I'm going for, what kind of interactions I want them to have when they bounce off of each other.
> 
> Then I think- okay, what do I feel cheated on with canon/want more of/think would look/sound cool?
> 
> And then I plot out, okay, how do I get the characters where I need them to be, how do I get the atmosphere down, and what plot points do I need to stitch together to give the arcs a way to mesh together and show all those cool scenes.
> 
> Which is why I have a great time writing people interacting and thinking and talking, but a horrible time stitching action scenes and plot together. Oh well.

"I have taken your children from you. Surely it would be cruel... Not to give them back?" The Night King smiles, and this time, it is cruel. Knowingly. (Couched in some bitter remnant of loss, of blame- for he has lost the war where it matters. The living stole Jon Snow's heart, and while the Night King knows you cannot chain someone to love you, he knows who he blames, even if his true ire isn't that. It is deeper. It is in the way this one man stands up, defenseless, with nothing left save the lost hope of people who had nothing, who stands in the way, anyway.

He was like that, once.

But defiance gets wrung out of you, when you only know how to fight one war, and it consumes all others. He does not care if it paints him a villain. He has tried to swear off all emotion- and he can be removed and remote and distant as the ice and snow and night, all consuming, neverending- But in this... In this he rages, for the fire of what once was and what was lost twice over will not be assuaged. If Jon wishes to fight a war he cannot win, if he chooses this man and the living husks who do not know their own folly, all over a true peace that could fix it all... Then the Night King will mete out his judgement, and spare no one, as it was and as it always would be.)

He raises his arms, and Tormund's dead daughters and sons, the ones who would have lived if not for the rising winter, rise out from the wind and snow-

And Tormund raises his only blade- dragonglass. Wondering, if he really can look these dead things in the eye-

When they no longer look dead, and while he tells himself they are only corpses...

But all the wit and logic in the world does not change the fact he knows those faces, even if their eyes are remote and blue and cold as ice, swarming with a rotten spore of some false hatred, some imitation of feral rage borne from too much time to think with a mind that is not their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also this is meant to be negative character development because the NK's whole thing is he doesn't want to feel things and can cut himself off from things but the more things progress, the more humanized he becomes the more he interacts with the living and has personal stakes thanks to Jon stuff and the fact that he actually has to address his hypocrisy and live with the consequences.


	34. Plagues (spoiler segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I need to post two sentences for my sanity, I apologize that this is not a full chapter yet.
> 
> Ideally, this will be sei badly alluded to past life prophecy things and some more angst and incredibly brief zombie battles while I try to get my hyperfocus to work, but for now it is this.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Prince of Egypt. Spoilers since this occurs like, five-ish chapters from the end probably but tbh I don't think anyone's too concerned about spoilers with the way this WIP is.

All of them bear witness to the last toast of the free folk remaining, because while the living are not the only ones to care for rituals, they are the only ones able to derive joy, to carve out hope and a place to believe and hold on to each other in the familiarity of holding on to the threads they could keep of the old and forge it in the new world they have found themselves in-

Jon pulls the sword from the mouth of the Drogon, and hands it over to Jaime.

And Brienne is crowned a night under the last of the stars, until they flicker and go out with the gust of cold seeping into everyone's bones-

The Others are here.

They had made it all the way across the sea, and across the desert, and they brought the eye of the storm and all it's icy, detached fury with them.

And it was all ready to come to a head- for the Night King and his army to take on the maelstrom of fire and blood and death the newly resurrected, many-faced ruler of Valyria brought with him out of the House of Black and White, with all those of the remaining living- save for those who fled south- all caught in the middle.

\--

"I am a Stark. But we are not the sum of our houses anymore. We are all a family, now, because we're not going to let them take us without a fight. We are going to win, no matter what happens, because they cannot take our memory from us. They cannot take the memory of where we came from. Of what we want for our children, and our brothers, and the strangers we have learned to call friends." Jon pauses, and looks at all of them- all these people who once were worlds apart, all united under different banners, all at each other's throats or unknown to the other until they were caught in a vicegrip that the world had slumbered on for so long.

Jon looks to Missandei, to Tyrion, to Grey Worm, to Sam, Gilly, Brienne, Jaime, Meera- and then he looks at Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Tormund, and holds his head high.

"And we are never going to let anyone take that from us again."

Then they all converge, Jon's heart aching as he holds them close, as he wonders if they will ever get a chance to be united in this, or if the Starks are the only name that will be standing if the cold has it's way. (And then he thinks of Dany- lost Dany, the woman who lost so much and who took so much too, who has blood on her hands as much as he does, and he prays that she still lives. And that she does not meet the same fate, when the fire wants to make her it's own just as much as the Night King wants him, only to make her skin a different legacy, a different name- and he hopes she does not see her family fall to ashes as she's lived through so many times, even if she's lost the ones that once chose her as their own when she lost her way. He hopes he does not see them fall, either, because they have become his family, and if this fails he knows they will not be spared by the fire or the ice. But Missandei and Grey Worm still love her, still want her back and to be the person they knew her to be, just as Jon does- and Jon prays that she does not see that lost family fall in to ashes at her feet, the same way Jon fears seeing everyone else fall to the ice or see his own family the only ones left to live in an icy hellscape that only they could survive. So many things want to keep them in a box, in a cage, in the ice or the flames of their own design- and he wants to break free of it as much as he thinks she does, deep down.

He hopes they see her, one last time. Even if it's selfish. Even if all it would be is a kind of goodbye.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to self: make this less exposition-y when you are done
> 
> also add in the FLASHBACKS WHOO and the Big United Stark Moment with all the prophecy pieces falling into place
> 
> (Jon having flashbacks thanks to warging)


	35. I'll Make A Man Out of You (sentence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this comes after some butterfly sickness and Naath stuff I haven't written yet for Missandei and Grey Worm, but in the interim have some Grey Worm helping out ppl in Naath while they prepare for undead shenanigans.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Mulan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to get started on some of Grey Worm's arc and wanted to let him do his speeches because I have a lot of speeches for him and I'm still pissed at canon
> 
> Like, I'm pissed at canon for everyone, but for Grey Worm and Missandei and Jon especially

"I was raised a weapon. A tool. Seen as less than a person, less than an animal, less than dirt. And I was able to become free, to set myself free and walk a new path. And here, you welcomed me, let me see you for who you are, let me share part of the past that Missandei had stolen from her. But now a new threat comes, not just the one that steals you from your homes and takes your children. Something worse. Something evil. Something ancient. Something that wishes to erase you and make you unlike yourselves. And you, all of you, are people of peace. But you can uphold your vows while still being able to fight back! You will not be used! You will not be erased, or cowed, or broken!" Grey Worm hefts his spear to the sky. "And if you cannot kill what is dead, you can still put them back to rest!"


	36. Dead End (sentence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei and Dany meet up again and things get complicated.
> 
> Chapter title a song from Crypt of the Necrodancer.
> 
> Also Dany is obviously going to be making very horrible decisions, but when it comes to Missandei, that's like, her one tether to her not-a-mess priorities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs a couple chapters after Jaime and Dany's adventures in the House of Black and White, but because I'm still figuring out where ppl are when in some places, I'm leaving it somewhere in the middle of the story unspecified.

"Go!" Dany yells.

When Missandei hesitates, tries to drag her down the slope with her and take her from this place, she bites her hand to make her let go, and pushes Missandei down the ledge, watches he sliding over the ice and away from the flames and the not-quite-a-man who wanted nothing more than to sacrifice Missandei on the altar.

Dany would not allow it. She may be many things, and she may be a monster, but she knows one thing above all. And she is not letting anyone hurt or take Missandei from this world, be it ice or flames or anyone who dares try, animal or human or spectre from beyond the grave.

\--

When Dany turns to face Rhyllor, she stares the fire in his eyes down, and does not look away.

Fire cannot burn a dragon. Even if she is a dragon with clipped and broken wings.

She would rise from these flames, too, no matter what claim they tried to lay upon her.

No matter what blood ran in her veins.


End file.
